


You Haven't Gained A Day

by Synekdokee



Series: Missed Connections [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Case Fic, Denial, Eventual Smut, Human Connor, M/M, Slow Burn, age disparity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-07-25 20:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16204688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: The picture attached is uncanny. In his uniform Connor looks different from the flirty little twink climbing all over Hank’s lap in a taxi ten years ago, and he’s certainly filled up a little, face a little less angular and more masculine now. Hank remembers those earnest brown eyes and those pink lips a little too well though. Even the fucking cowlick is still there.And then Hank’s stomach rolls over when his brain truly catches up with what he just read - DOB August 1990.University my ass, Hank thinks weakly





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once again thank you to RedxLuna for the beta services, and Arkemisia for being such a good sport about being used as a sounding board.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @roomfullofcunts/synekdokee

_Baby I’m afraid_  
_But it’s not your fault_  
_Maybe I should go home_  
_Alone tonight_

 

There’s a plain, slim folder on his desk when he returns from lunch, stamped with the Ann Arbor Police Department logo. Curious, Hank flips it open, skimming, and it all rushes back to him.

_“It’ll do you good to train a younger detective,” Fowler said, pushing the form towards Hank insistently._

_“I don’t need a fucking rookie to baby-sit,” Hank snapped, hands clenched into fists, shaking with rage. “Is this what you fucking think of me, that all I’m good for now is playing nanny to some fumbling beginners? Huh? Keep me out of the crime scene-”_

  _Jeffrey slammed his hands on his desk, standing up to face Hank like two obstinate old goats butting heads._

_"I’d have you out on the field more if it wasn’t for your complete disregard for everything your job stands for,” he roared, and even Hank jolted back a little._

  _Jeffrey ran a hand over his face, sighing. “Truth be told Hank, I’m hoping having to lead by example will help you get your shit together a little,” he said, sounding weary. “You can’t keep going on like this, and I can’t keep covering for you forever. Sign up as a mentor - I even have a candidate for you, a good kid from Ann Arbor. A real go-getter.” He smiled, looking a little wistful. “Kinda reminds me of you, when we were young.”_

  _Hank scoffed, scribbling his name at the bottom of the mentor application sheet, and shoved it towards Jeffrey. “Fine,” he growled, arms folded tight over his chest. “But if you assign me some brown-nosing pain in the ass, I’m sending him packing;” he said, marching out before Jeffrey had a chance to retort._

_Somehow Hank still felt Fowler had won something._

  
  
Fuck. Fuck, what had he signed himself up for. He tries to hide his hangover under a caffeine overdose, slurping at his third cup while he browses the folder with disinterest.

Graduated top of his class from Ann Arbor Police Academy; has a clean, exemplary work record; liked and admired by his peers; participated in neighbourhood outreaches; recommended for promotion sometime last year, blah fucking blah. Like Hank, Fowler had said, and Hank has to suppress a snort. Time has clearly gilded some of Jeffrey’s memories - even at his best Hank had been an unconventional cop, hardly the kind of paragon of virtue this one comes off as - this kid has “by the book” written all over his resume. Fucking Ann Arbor over-achievers, he huffs.

He flips back to the front page and nearly falls off his chair.

Detective Connor Kamski, born in 1990, reads the header.

The picture attached is uncanny. In his uniform he looks different from the flirty little twink climbing all over Hank’s lap in a taxi ten years ago, and he’s certainly filled up a little, face a little less angular and more masculine now. Hank remembers those earnest brown eyes and those pink lips a little too well though. Even the fucking cowlick is still there.

And then Hank’s stomach rolls over when his brain truly catches up with what he just read - DOB August 1990.

 _University my ass_ , Hank thinks weakly, trying to decide if he’s going to be sick.

10 years ago Connor would’ve only just turned 18.

Hank slams the folder shut and presses his forehead against it, staring at the grain of his desk. He can’t do this. He can’t mentor someone who he fucked ten years ago, especially a kid who apparently hadn’t even been out of his teens yet.

What the fuck’s he gonna do, walk up to Fowler and say “Hey, I can’t watch over this rookie with a perfect, squeaky-clean record who would make this precinct look really good, because I fucked him into my mattress when he was barely 18”?

Sure, that’d go down well.

What does it even matter? The kid’s not gonna remember him in the first place, and if he did, Hank’s changed enough over the past decade. He runs a self-conscious palm over his gut, a familiar feeling of self-hate teasing at the edges of his thoughts. He’d been less than a year from his Lieutenant’s rank the night he’d taken Connor home. Less than a week from the major heroin bust. Now he’s on the verge of an alcohol-fueled breakdown, or putting a bullet in his own skull.

He opens the file again, staring into Connor’s face. Time’s been far kinder on the kid than on Hank.

He shakes his head. Connor won’t remember him, and as far as the kid knows, Hank has no memory of him either. Six months of training and he’ll be out on his own in the world, solving crimes and breaking hearts.  Hank smirks as he gets up and heads to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. He stares himself in the mirror, taking in the unkempt hair, the sallow skin and the red-rimmed eyes. His past self would be ashamed.

But then, his past self hadn’t lost the things he had.

He runs into Reed in the hallway and his temper flares before the asshole even opens his mouth. Hank can read it on his face that he has something nasty brewing under his skin.

“I heard you’re getting the golden boy from Ann Arbor,” Reed says, and Hank wonders if he even fucking hears how petty he sounds. “Tell me Anderson, whose dick do you have to suck to get them to give mentorship to an alcoholic has-been like you?”

It’s weak, even by Reed’s standards, but Hank’s already a little frayed at the edges today. He shoves Reed into a filing cabinet, and he might be a has-been but he still has enough mass and muscle in him to wrap a twerp like Reed into a pretzel. The thought seems to occur to Reed too, his eyes widening a little as he stumbles back.

“I don’t know, Gavin, but you can be sure your brown-nosing self is the first one I’ll tell,” he grunts, walking away before Reed gets the chance to reply.

He heads home early. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.

  
  
He makes a marginal effort the next morning. He showers, combs his hair, puts on something that doesn’t smell like three-days worth of alcohol-sweat. He ends up running late anyway, the beers from last night forming a heavy curtain over his thoughts. He arrives by ten, still earlier than on his worst days.

He nearly freezes on the spot when he walks into the bull-pen. Connor - his back is turned, but it has to be Connor - is hovering over his desk, fiddling with his music player, and Hank has the urge to just turn on his heel and march out.

He walks up to his desk, steeling himself.

Connor turns at the sound of his footsteps, and if Hank wasn’t already on the verge of a stroke over this whole situation, he’d laugh at the look spreading on the kid’s face.

Instant, horrified recognition.

 _Fuck my life_ , Hank thinks. He keeps his face impassive, giving Connor an unimpressed look.

_I don’t know you._

“Can I help you?” He asks, tone impatient. Connor blinks, mouthing mutely like a fish, and it’d be funny if it wasn’t so awful.

“I- um. I’m. I’m Connor, I’m the detective transferring from Ann Arbor?” he stutters, face growing red. “You’re-”

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” Hank cuts him short, pointing at the name tag on his desk. “Wow, you really _must_ be a detective,” he says, voice unnecessarily hostile, but he can’t handle this, he can’t deal with the earnestness on Connor’s face right now.

He leaves Connor floundering as he sits down in his chair, wound up so tight he feels a headache coming on.

“I, uh. We-” the kid starts, then seems to realise where he is as he looks around uncertainly. Hank takes pity on him and makes a sweeping gesture at the empty table pushed against his.

“That’s your desk. Settle in and I’ll show you around once I’ve dealt with my emails,” he says, and to his credit Connor stops trying to bring up events from a decade ago and sits down stiffly. He lays a few items on his desk; a black leather agenda, a few pens, an unframed photograph that he pulls from his pocket. Hank can’t see what it is, but he wonders if it’s a girlfriend. Christ, or his kid.

Hank’s stomach roils.

He tries to distract himself with his emails, but he’s painfully aware of every movement Connor makes in his peripheral vision.

Someone from IT comes over to set up Connor’s computer profile and email, and it gives Hank a chance to finally look at him properly. Christ, he looks good. Hank tries to be objective about it, not act like an old pervert (and what the fuck had he been thinking, all those years ago?), but you don’t run into people who look like _that_ every day. Hank envies him a little.

Connor at 18 had been cute, maybe pretty, a little skinny, and sexy in a way that came more from his eagerness and overly-cocky attitude than his physical traits; Connor nearing his 30s looks _devastating_. His jaw is a little squarer, features more mature and sharp, but his face with his full lips and long lashes and a spattering of moles still has the kind of youthful charm that never goes away with some people. His shoulders have filled out, and while he’s still slender he carries himself differently, with easy, quiet confidence.

(Hank had always used his body to project his confidence loudly, always too big to hide in the background with ease, not like Connor. If you’re going to stand out, better work it to your advantage.)

He’s dressed a little stuffily for his age, a plain black suit and skinny black tie. It suits his narrow build, even if Hank suspects it might put off some of his colleagues here. His haircut would be a little too much from a recruit’s handbook if not for the boyish cowlick falling over his forehead. Hank wonders if it’s calculated, or if it’s just out of Connor’s control. He looks a little stiff, perhaps nervous about being the new guy, but there’s no awkwardness about him.

Hank pretends to be casually interested in the IT guy’s blather as he watches them. Connor’s perfected the Concerned Officer -look - brow a little furrowed as he listens to the advice, eyes flickering between the computer screen and the IT guy. He licks his bottom lip as he nods to instructions about setting up his password through the internal servers, and Hank looks away.

 _A fucking nightmare_.

Hank lets them finish, and then just to be petty, he lets Connor stew in his own discomfort for a moment. Then he sees Reed start strolling towards them, and Hank stands up. Connor looks up at him, startled, and follows.

“All right, Kamski,” Hank says, the surname strange on his tongue. “I’ll show you the ropes. First piece of advice, stay away from detective Reed,” he says, pointing at Gavin in a very obvious way. Gavin stops in his tracks and flips him off, and Jeffrey bangs on his office window, glaring at them both.

To Hank’s amusement Connor looks like he’d happily sink into the ground.

He gives Connor the tour, giving him a concise introduction of the precinct. Connor pays attention, asking all the right questions about security and logs. Hank tries not to notice the way his voice has deepened, settled into a pleasantly soft cadence that oozes trustworthiness. Christ, the kid was made to be a cop, he thinks a little bitterly.

They end up in the break room, drinking shitty filter coffee. Connor fidgets next to him, clearly trying to figure out how to bring up their night together, and Hank can’t let that happen. His sanity hinges on Connor thinking Hank doesn’t remember him, doesn’t remember how he looked with his lips wrapped around Hank’s cock or moaning on his back like a bitch in heat.

“So, Kamski was it?” Hank asks, pushing down his thoughts, and then frowns. “Related to Elijah Kamski?”

Connor looks jolted out of his thoughts, hand going to rub the back of his neck.

“He’s my cousin,” he says reluctantly. Hank supposes he gets asked about it a lot. “I’d prefer it if you called me Connor,” he adds, and there’s something cautious about his tone.

Hank purses his lips, nodding. “Connor it is.” He offers the kid his hand, giving him a polite smile. “Welcome to Detroit, Connor.”

Connor shakes his hand, but there’s something a little wounded in his smile.

  
  
They get their first case right away, Fowler briefing them on a hit-and-run turned homicide when the victim died in the hospital. A witness saw the car and the license plate, but the car had turned up totaled at a junkyard. They’re in Hank’s car, heading to the yard to see if their surveillance system has anything they can use.

Connor spends most of the drive watching Hank, and eventually Hank snaps.

“Take a picture, it’ll last you longer,” he growls. Connor keeps staring at him.  

“You really don’t-” Connor starts, and falls silent, his face twisted up into an expression Hank can’t decipher.

“I really don’t _what_? If you’ve got something to say about my driving, you’re welcome to take a hike,” Hank grumbles, intentionally obtuse.

“Nothing. Forget it,” Connor says, voice terse. He fidgets with his hands before digging out a quarter from his pocket and starts rolling it over his knuckles.

Hank follows the movement from the corner of his eye.

 

The junk yard is on the outskirts of the city, and the moment they pull up to the gates a burly, oil-stained man lumbers up to meet them, hostility on his face. Connor’s smart enough to tell that his brand of professionalism won’t be well-received here, and Hank’s pleased when he hangs back a little and lets Hank do the talking.

Connor bristles when the yard manager gives him a long look, taking in the boring black suit.

“I didn’t know the Feds were involved.”

Hank doesn’t bother muffling his laugh.  
  
  
The car had showed up at night when the place had been closed, the gate padlock broken to get the car into the yard. They fast forward the security footage until they see the car drive up and get parked in the back. A man in a hoodie steps out and walks away, and then a second car shows up.

Hank feels Connor grow tense next to him, hunched as they are over the computer in the tiny office. The perp gets in the car and it turns to drive away, and just at the edge of the screen-

“There,” Connor says, voice excited as he points. A partial license plate.

“We can run it with the model and colour in the database,” Connor says, sounding satisfied. Hank nods and requests a copy of the footage.

Back in the car Connor sheds his jacket and rolls up his sleeves.

  
They have enough time to have another cup of shitty coffee over awkward small talk before they get the registration info; the second car belongs to the brother of the accident car’s driver.  

“Alright, kid,” Hank says, slapping Connor’s shoulder. “Let’s go pick up the trash,”

Connor gives him a pained look. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t call me that, Lieutenant,” he says, and Hank just shrugs.

They talk about Detroit as they drive. Connor claims he’s never been here before, and Hank wonders if it’s meant to trip him up. He tells Hank he’s staying in a hotel until he can find a place to rent, and Hank politely gives him a few leads. It’s casual and amiable, and Hank’s very proud of how he’s managing to snuff out the voice in the back of his head screaming “ _I reamed your barely legal ass!_ ”.

Hank lets Connor do the honours once they find the apartment they’re looking for. He rings the doorbell which turns out to be broken, and then knocks firmly on the flaking door. There’s no answer, so he knocks again, and Hank gives him facetious “so now what?” look.

Connor gives him an annoyed frown and yells, “Detroit police, open up!”

There’s commotion in the apartment, the sound of glass breaking, and Hank pulls out his sidearm, pushing Connor away from the door.

“Stay behind me,” he says, backing up to kick the door down.

“They’re getting away,” Connor shouts, and Hank turns his head to look through the window at the end of the corridor just in time to see someone running through the parking lot.

“I’m going around,” Connor blurts out, and then he’s gone, leaving Hank to swear after him in frustration.

Hank knows the area better than Connor, can guess where the perps are heading. He takes a shortcut to the overpass, and from the distance sees the two brothers scrambling towards the park, already flagging. Connor’s gained on them, sprinting like a fucking greyhound.

Hank heads towards them to cut them off, his heart already pounding in his chest, lungs aching. He rounds a corner, skidding to a halt. One of the suspects has disappeared, the other hesitating by the divider separating the park from a busy highway. Hank catches up to him, grabbing him and throwing him down on the ground to cuff him, when Connor appears, slowing down to a jog when he sees Hank wrestling with the perp.

Hank doesn’t see the brother until it’s too late, pouncing from behind a car.

“Connor, behind you!” Hank yells, leaving the captured man on the ground as he runs to help Connor.

He doesn’t need Hank’s help. He rams himself backwards into a brick wall, trapping the perp between it and him, still trying to cling to Connor’s throat even though he’s had the wind knocked out of him. Connor grabs the man’s arm, twists his body around until their positions are reversed, and kicks his knee out from under him, pressing him down to the ground by the grip he has on his bent elbow. It’s over in a matter of seconds.

Hank only helps pin the man down while Connor applies the handcuffs. Only then does Connor double down, hands on his knees while he catches his breath.

“Jesus fuck,” Hank laughs, not bothering to hide the admiration in his voice. “Nice job, Connor,” he says, slapping his curved back and nearly sending him staggering.

Connor straightens up, still panting hard, a wide grin on his face.

“Not bad for a rookie, huh?” he says, and Hank can’t help but laugh.

  
Jeffrey falls in love with Connor immediately. Between having Hank and Reed lead their homicide unit, having someone like Connor on his precinct is like a gift from the gods. He gives Hank a good lecture about letting rookies run off to danger on their own, and then grips Connor’s shoulder in an almost fatherly manner, congratulating him on a job well done.

The look Hank’s face must be something special, judging by the way Connor chokes on a laugh.

Reed is less of a delight. He shows up towards the end of the day when Connor and Hank are doing paperwork. Hank sees him heading their way from the corner of his eye and prepares himself for the unpleasantries.

Gavin parks his ass on the corner of Connor’s desk, startling Connor out of his reverie.

“So, you’re the new guy saddled with Anderson,” Gavin drawls, tone pitying. Connor looks at him, and then at Hank.

“Isn’t that _Lieutenant_ Anderson to you?” he asks pointedly, evening a steady look at Reed. Hank feels the tendrils of satisfaction warm his heart at the sight of Reed’s neck growing a little pink. Reed turns to give Hank a look over his shoulder, quiet for a moment.

“Careful there, _Kamski_ ,” he drawls, voice unpleasant as he looks at Connor again, no longer overly friendly. “Stay too close to a sinking ship and it’ll drag you down with it.”

Connor doesn’t satisfy him with an answer, and Hank sits quietly, watching the little staring contest in front of him. Finally Reed snorts and gets up, throwing his coffee cup into Connor’s trash bin before walking away.

Connor looks at Hank, the unspoken “what the fuck” clear on his face.

Hank waves his hand dismissively. “I told you to stay away from him. For Reed the world is full of two kinds of people; those who are his friends, and those who are his enemies.”

Connor nods slowly. “Well, I can guess which category I fall into.”

Hank’s not so sure. Normally, yes, but Reed’s interest in Connor’s file yesterday muddles things. Reed’s an opportunist, and if he thinks Connor can help him advance, one slight isn’t going to dissuade him.

“Just watch yourself around him,” he tells Connor, going back to his work. “Don’t let him get to you.”

To Connor’s credit, he seems to hold his own against Reed. Gavin keeps making overtures to him, sometimes making sure Hank’s around to hear him, sometimes cornering the kid in private. Hank can usually tell when it’s happened from the uncomfortable looks Connor gives him afterwards, but he doesn’t ask about the things Gavin’s telling him.

 

Things get easier as weeks pass. Hank almost forgets about their past, and Connor stops going bug-eyed around him every time something happens that seems to remind him about it. The kid’s a good investigator, efficient to the point where he makes Hank want to put in more of an effort too, and intuitive in a way that does remind Hank of his younger years.

There’s still a hurt air about him occasionally, when Hank treats him more officially or it becomes especially clear that he doesn’t remember Connor. Any questions about the kid’s past trigger a frown and a wounded tilt of his mouth before he catches himself.

It bothers Hank, sometimes. They shared one night. A good one, much as he hates to admit it, but he refuses to even entertain the idea that Connor had been infatuated with him. He was the one who snuck out without saying goodbye, anyway. So why is Connor so hung up on him?

There’s no way to address the issue though, so he leaves it. They work well together, Connor’s sharp instincts and Hank’s experience well-matched. They mostly deal with easy cases, Jeffrey easing Connor into the casework, and they haven’t had to chase down any suspects since the first day, which Hank is happy about.

Even Reed has been suspiciously absent for the past few days.

  
  
They’re having lunch at a salad bar Connor had chosen (“ _I can’t eat fast food seven days a week, Lieutenant, I can practically feel the plaque building up in my arteries,_ ” he’d pleaded), Connor poking awkwardly at the few lettuce shreds left on his plate.

“What’s Reed’s issue with you anyway?” He asks, staring at his food.

Hank huffs, chasing a pine seed around with his fork uselessly.

“Gavin doesn’t like weakness. He and I used to get along, years ago, before-” he pauses, swallowing around the lump in his throat. How to tell Connor about Cole and everything that happened after? How does he easily divide his life into Before and After Cole’s Death without coming out and saying “and then I became a self-pitying alcoholic”?

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. The truth is I haven’t exactly been pulling my weight around the precinct lately. Reed either thinks it reflects badly on him, or he resents the fact I haven’t been fired yet.” He shrugs. “To be fair I’ve never bothered to ask for his opinion.”

Connor gives him an almost contrite look.  
  
“He told me I could request to be partnered with him after my training is complete,” he says, voice cautious.

Hank’s grip around his fork tightens, and he takes a deep breath through his nose before answering.

“You’re free to do that if you want. I won’t take it personally. I’m aware I’m not in the same sha-” he covers his slip-up with a cough, sipping at his water. “I’m not as young as you are, or Reed. I don’t have the same kind of stamina, not to mention work ethic,” he says frankly. Connor makes like he’s about to protest, but Hank lifts his hand up.

“Let me finish. You’re free to choose where or who you want to work with, but I can’t in good conscience give my blessing to you working with Reed. The man is _riddled_ with bad habits when it comes to police work. I have my issues, but I don’t brutalise suspects and I don’t cut corners to make myself look better,” he says, realising he’s raised his voice. He slumps down in his seat, not wanting to see the look on Connor’s face right now.

Warm fingers brush over his knuckles, and Hank looks up, startled. Connor withdraws his hand, smiling at him lopsidedly.

“I appreciate your honesty,” he says. “I don’t think I’ll be taking detective Reed up on his offer.” There’s a note of finality in his tone.

Hank nods, going back to his salad. It doesn’t taste that bad after all.

  
  
  
Connor must tell Reed to go stuff himself after that, because the man’s attitude changes fast. He’s no longer trying to get Connor to join his Anderson ragging sessions - now he’s being targeted too. Fortunately for Connor he’s become too well-liked at the precinct for anything to come of it except uncomfortable looks from coworkers slowly excusing themselves from the situation.

Reed leaves them alone eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know he’s young, Jeffrey, but he’s a good cop. And he’s sharp enough that he can really do something with this case, maybe more than half the people here,” Hank insists, starting to feel a little desperate. He wants to defend Connor, wants to give him a chance to truly prove himself.

After two more weeks of routine cases and more salads than Hank’s had in the past year, shit hits the fan.

 

“We’re not officially calling them serial killings just yet,” Fowler says quietly, pushing the files across his desk. Hank grabs his copy, and Connor picks up his with such measured, careful calmness that Hank almost smiles despite himself. He remembers his first big case - it’s hard not to feel excited, no matter how horrifying the details.

Two verified victims that they know of. Both male, both killed with a single bullet in the middle of their foreheads. Arms placed straight along their bodies, palms facing up. A red poker chip placed on the entry wounds. No prints.

“But you can see why there’s little doubt.”

Fowler gives them a moment to look through the connecting details - of which there are few. Hank flips through the pages. First victim was Michael Franks, 37, no living relatives. Bookstore manager, living in a house he’d inherited. Neighbours hadn’t known him well. Unmarried.

Second victim was Tom Waters. He was 35, married, no children. Living in a middle-class apartment building, 9-5 office drone, social, but lacking close friends.

There’s also a third victim, dead a few days before Franks. Robert Ritter , left in a similar manner - body posed, one shot in the middle of his brow. He fits the physical profile - white, late 30s, middle-class, but there’s no poker chip. If the killer is the same, it was where he started.

Different jobs, different social circles, different kinds of lifestyles. Nothing to connect them.

They go through their plan with Fowler, but as they get up Jeffrey holds Hank back. Connor leaves, shooting him a worried glance before he shuts the door behind him.

“I’m worried about giving this case to you two,” Jeffrey says, leaning back in his chair. Hank opens his mouth to tell Jeffrey to go fuck himself, but maybe he’s getting predictable because Jeffrey lifts his hand up to silence him.

“You’ve been in better shape recently, and I assume it’s because of Connor. And you’ve never slacked on a case, not even on your worst days;” he says, voice frank. “But Connor’s still green. I know he assisted with a few murder investigations in Ann Arbor, but a potential serial killer is always challenging - even more on a younger detective.”

Hank nods. “I’ll watch out for him, and he’s tough. He’s got a solid head on his shoulders,” he says reassuringly. Jeffrey doesn’t look convinced.

“I know he’s young, Jeffrey, but he’s a good cop. And he’s sharp enough that he can really do something with this case, maybe more than half the people here,” Hank insists, starting to feel a little desperate. He wants to defend Connor, wants to give him a chance to truly prove himself.

Jeffrey gives him a long, considering look. “I don’t really have a choice, everyone else is swamped,” he admits eventually. He hesitates for a moment, but then carries on. “And you have prior experience with serial killers. You’re a good cop, Hank, I’d rather not put this case on anyone else. But if you even for a second think Connor can’t handle it, you call on Gavin and Chris for support. Understood?”

Hank frowns, but as much as he dislikes sharing cases with Reed, he knows it’s not an unreasonable request.

“Understood.”

 

 

 

“What did Fowler want?”

They’re in the first (suspected) victim’s apartment, looking for anything that could spark a trail for them. Hank’s going through the address book, Connor is rummaging in the victim’s wardrobe.

Hank stalls, trying to decide how much he should tell Connor. But he’s a big boy, he can handle the truth.

“He’s not entirely sold on if you can handle this case,” he says, and then braces himself when he hears Connor stop going through the shelves. There’s a moment of silence and then Connor’s marching up to him, face set in a frown, looking to start an argument. Hank raises his arms up, taking a step back.

“Hey, I defended your honour! And I promised him I’d have your back.”

Connor’s face softens a little, and he fidgets with his tie. “Oh. Well. Thank you,” he says awkwardly, and goes back to rooting through the clothes, the wind taken out of his sails. Hank stifles a smile.

The sun sets on them as they go through every nook and cranny, every note, letter and receipt, trying to find something to connect the victim to the other two. They come up short, and eventually Hank decides to pull the plug.

“We’ll check out the other houses tomorrow,” Hank decides, glancing at the clock. Christ, it’s late. The look Connor gives him makes him feel like he’s kicked a puppy.

“We still have time. I have nowhere to be,” Connor says, voice a mix of eager and sullen. Hank shakes his head.

“This is what Fowler was talking about. You’ll run yourself to the ground if you don’t know when to pull back. If we go now we won’t be done with our report until the early hours of the morning. The crime scenes aren’t going anywhere.”

“Maybe if you showed up on time for once we wouldn’t have to waste half a work-day,” Connor snaps.

It’s not entirely uncalled for. Still, it stings.

Hank raises an eyebrow, folding his arms. Connor at least has the decency to look chagrined.

“I apologise,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean-”

“Yeah, you did,” Hank drawls, but he can’t find it in himself to put any heat behind his words. “But if you’re snapping at your superiors, it’s time to call it a day,” he says, and walks out of the apartment before Connor can argue.

He waits in the car until Connor shambles down, and good god, reprimanding the kid shouldn’t make Hank feel this low. Connor sits quietly as they drive, fiddling with that fucking coin of his.

Hank sighs. “Look, Connor-” he says, but Connor blurts out over him.

“I was out of line, I apologise. I didn’t-” he stops, then starts again, Hank listening with bemusement.

“You’re a _good_ detective, lieutenant,” Connor says empathetically, turning that earnest face of his towards Hank. “I don’t care what Reed says, or what you say- working with you these past weeks has been invaluable to me. I didn’t intend to imply your work isn’t up to par.”

Hank nods, digesting that little outburst.

“You can’t go off at your superior,” Hank says finally, voice even. “You’ll find your career will grind to a halt if you do.”

Connor turns to stare out of the window, as though hiding his face from Hank. Hank stares at the curve of his cheekbone, something tightening in his gut.

“I know. It’s not like me at all,” Connor says quietly, tone so unreadable it speaks volumes to Hank.

 

 

 

 

Hank sits against the headboard of his bed, a glass of cheap whisky cradled in his hand.

He thought ignoring his and Connor’s past was the professional thing to do, but he’s starting to wonder how much it’s affecting Connor’s behaviour. If it’s affecting his own behaviour.

Lately he’s been having dreams of Connor; some of them nightmares, scenarios of Connor dead and brutalised, Hank having failed to keep him safe.

Some are built on memories from 10 years ago, only Connor’s shape is broader and stronger in them, and they leave Hank aching upon waking up.

It’s too late for the truth. If Connor’s loss of temper (and judgement) is because he’s hurt over Hank not remembering him, things will be monumentally worse for them both if they address the elephant in the room.

He tells himself it’s a good lesson for Connor, learning to put his personal feelings aside.

What Hank’s supposed to be getting out of it is still a mystery.

He downs his whiskey and falls asleep once his brain numbs enough to silence itself.

 

 

 

 

 

He’s up at the precinct at 8 am, on the dot. The look Connor gives him makes it worth the hangover. He smiles at Hank, just the corner of his mouth curving up, and Hank’s tries to ignore the pleased jolt it gives him.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Connor says brightly, sliding a cup of coffee to Hank’s side of the table. Hank grabs it, grateful, and drinks nearly half of it in one go.

“Wait.” Connor didn’t know he was going to show up. Hank peers at the cup. “Did you give me your coffee?”

Connor shrugs, face guileless. “I’ll get another one when I’m done with this,” he says, gesturing to his desktop. His gaze slides to his right, and Hank looks over his shoulder to see Gavin heading over their way, holding a cup of coffee.

“I don’t suppose he’s bringing that for me?” Connor drawls quietly.

“Ah, Jesus,” Hank groans, busying himself with a file.

“Is that Hank Anderson at work before noon?” Reed says gleefully, voice loud enough to attract attention in the bull-pen. “What, did you run out of whiskey? Managed to crawl out of whatever hole you spend your nights in?”

Hank barely sees Connor shift, but Gavin goes flying, coffee spilling over the floor as he barely catches himself on the edge of a table, righting himself with a stumble.

“Son of a-” he shouts, and Connor sits up in his chair, squaring his shoulders.

“Careful there, detective,” he says, voice so stone-cold Hank barely recognises it. “You should really watch yourself.”

Reed lunges at him, and Hank’s out of his chair, shooting an arm out to block Reed who has his teeth bared, body coiled tight, ready for a fight. The whole room has gone quiet, everybody watching.

“Don’t be a fucking moron, Gavin,” Hank growls quietly, pushing Reed back with his body.

Reed lets out a low sound, and then he steps back, shaking Hank off.

“You better watch your back,” he hisses, pointing at Connor, before storming away in fury.

 

“Jesus,” Hank breathes, running a hand through his hair. Connor sits frozen, staring at the splatter of coffee on the linoleum floor. He turns his head to look up at Hank, face blank. Slowly he leans an elbow on his desk, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Well,” he mumbles into his palm.

“You’re on his shit-list now,” Hank mutters, resting his hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

Connor lifts his head up, giving him a weak smile.

“Sorry. Something just-” he makes a feeble motion with his hand. “Snapped. You’re his superior, he should show some respect.”

Hank raises an eyebrow. _Is that all?_ He wants to ask, but thinks better of it.

Instead, he says, “Come on, those murder scenes aren’t gonna investigate themselves.”

 

 

 

 

It’s drizzling when they get to Franks’ house, the sky steely grey and dark in a way that promises a proper storm in the near future. The air’s heavy with ozone, and when Hank shuts the front door, he feels like he’s barricading against something.

As though sharing his premonition, Connor works quietly through the house. They start at opposite ends, Connor upstairs and Hank in the basement, and slowly they make their way towards the second floor dining room where the body had been found. A dry, rust-brown blood stain is still starkly visible on the old hardwood floor. The body’s long gone, the autopsy file in the report. No fibers, no prints, no nothing. Just a hole in the head and a poker chip placed neatly over it.

As though on cue, lightning flashes, followed by thunder, and the skies seem to open up. The rumble of rain on the roof echoes softly through the rooms.

“I’ll take the office,” Connor sighs, ruffling his hair. His jacket is hanging off a bannister somewhere downstairs, his sleeves rolled up and tie loose. Hank carefully doesn’t look at his wiry forearms or the exposed dip of his clavicles, tries not to remember how he’d bitten his way across them once. Or maybe his own libido has added that detail, garnishing his memory with made-up fantasies.

Hank is a sad old man.

Connor gives him an odd look, and Hank feels his face heat up. _Get a grip, Anderson_.

 

Hank heads to the guest room, taking in the tidily made up bed, the empty bureau and closet. He can hear Connor rummaging around in the office, and he dreads having to tell the kid they’re about to leave empty-handed again.

Hank’s ready to give up when Connor makes an excited sound from the office. They nearly collide into each other in the hallway, seeking each other out. Connor holds out a piece of paper torn from a notebook that had been discovered on the victim earlier, and he’s practically vibrating.

“Look,” he says, pointing at the numbers and letters written neatly in grid lines.

“I’ve seen this before,” he adds, voice a little breathless. “It’s gambling scores. And if I’m reading this right, we’re talking fairly large sums. Thousands even.”

Hank squints. He’s not an expert on gambling beyond placing a few dodgy bets on ponies now and then, but as Connor explains the markings to him it starts to make sense.

“This could be our link. We need to go search the last house, see if we can find anything that points to the third victim being involved in gambling,” Connor says, already heading to the door. Hank follows him, a little less energetic.

“It could be a coincidence,” he says, trying to rein Connor in a little. “Just because the man was gambling…”

Connor gives him a look. “Come now, Lieutenant,” he says, one eyebrow cocked. “You don’t strike me as someone who believes in coincidences.”

Something heavy hangs between them as they stare at each other, the air suddenly thick with awkward tension that has nothing to do with the case. Hank looks away first.

“No. No, I don’t,” he says gruffly, grabbing Connor’s jacket and tossing it to him. “Let’s go.”

 

 

 

It’s pouring down as Hank navigates the traffic in low visibility. His car is old, the tyres maybe a little more worn than an inspection would strictly allow, but they arrive safe and sound at the apartment building where the third victim was found.

The wife of the deceased opens the door, welcoming them inside with red-rimmed eyes and a soft voice. Hank apologises for bothering her, but she waves it away with her hand, offering them two hand towels to dry their rain-soaked hairs.

“I’m glad you’re doing everything you can,” she says, sniffling a little. “Tom deserves it.”

She leads them to the small room that the victim used as a home office. It’s barely larger than a walk-in closet, holding a desk and a laptop, a few bookshelves. She takes the towels from them and leaves them with a shaky smile. Connor watches her go, a worried frown on his face.

“She’ll be okay,” Hank says softly. “She’s certainly holding it together better than-”

 _Than I did_ , he thinks, rubbing a hand over his face. When he looks up again, Connor’s looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“What?” Hank snaps, and Connor reaches up, face carefully blank, and brushes a tangled strand of hair off Hank’s brow.

“Appearances, Lieutenant,” he says before turning away quickly and starting to pull out books from a nearby shelf.

Hank stands there staring at his back, mouth opening and closing stupidly. He brushes his hands through the mop of his own hair, tangled up by the towel, and then sets to work.

 

The rain has stopped, the patter of droplets against the small window in the office turned into the howling of wind outside.

They’ve gone through every book, every file, every drawer and every piece of paper. There’s nothing even remotely related to gambling, and Hank’s starting to feel the effects of his hangover and hunger start to wear on his temper. He shoves a drawer closed with a little bit more force than strictly necessary and it jolts the whole desk.

Something small and hard hits the floor with a clink, and Hank squats down with a grunt to reach between the wall and the desk to reach it.

It’s a round purple disc with a triangle and a number nine imprinted on it.

He feels Connor step closer behind him, leaning in to look. Connor lets out a soft breath.

“ _Gamblers Anonymous_.”

 

 

 

 

This time Connor has no complaints when Hank tosses a Chinese take-out menu on his desk once they’re back at the precinct. They’re back where it’s dry and warm, and the food is heavy and comforting. They’re well into the late afternoon, both of them starving and tired, but energised by the fact that their investigation now has a direction.

Hank is sprawled in his seat, stirring his coffee absently while Connor finishes his lo mein.

“The next Step meeting isn’t until friday,” Connor says thoughtfully, scraping at the container with his chopsticks. “We should go and see who shows up. Maybe they’re missing a few members.”

“You think all victims went to the same GA meetings?” Hank says sceptically. “If that’s how they were targeted, it’s a damn good way to attract attention.”

“Maybe not… But we have to start somewhere,” Connor says, tone annoyingly bright.

“We still have nothing to connect the first victim to the other two,” Hank muses, sipping at his coffee. Connor folds his arms on his desk, looking thoughtful.

“Maybe someone at the meeting will recognise him,” he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

“We’ll figure it out,” Hank smiles. “We make a good team.”

The corner of Connor’s mouth quirks up, revealing a small dimple.

Hank drinks his coffee.

 

 

 

 

It’s already dark out when they head home, the streets wet from the rain, reflecting the city lights in hues of blue.

“For such a garbage city, it almost looks pretty,” Hank says jokingly, getting in the car. Connor huffs out a laugh, buckling himself in. It’s formed into a habit by now, Hank driving Connor home - first to the hotel, now to the rental place he’s found. Connor had tried to raise a fuss about it at first, but once it turned out it cut his commute significantly, he’d gone along with it easily enough.

They rarely talk much on their drives to Connor’s place, but the silence is usually comfortable. Tired but relaxed rather than tense. Tonight though Connor seems to be on edge, his coin flickering in the edge of Hank’s vision, dancing across Connor’s fingers.

“Do you want to go get a drink?” he blurts out finally, and Hank’s hand on the steering wheel twitches.

“To celebrate,” Connor adds. “Our first real break on this case.”

Hank angles his face to throw him a look. “On a school night? Tsk, Connor,” he says, but he turns off the highway and sets course for a bar he knows that isn’t too seedy or pathetic to show Connor. Connor grins, flicking his coin up into the air and palming it before shoving it in his pocket.

 

 

The bar’s quiet, only a few patrons in the middle of the week. It’s a cheesy imitation of an Irish pub, green fake leather and wood paneling, but the beer is good. Hank can’t bring himself to order a whiskey now, so they end up in a booth with overpriced imported ales.

“To our big break,” Hank says, tipping his glass against Connor’s. Connor smiles, draping himself against the back of his seat. He looks good like this, relaxed and loose in a way he rarely is during work hours.

“Well, we don’t know if the Gamblers Anonymous is gonna lead anywhere yet,” he says, but there’s a pleased undertone to his words. “But I have a good feeling about this.”

Hank nods, and then they lapse into an uncomfortable silence. Hank fiddles with his glass while Connor watches him, something amused in his eyes.

“So, Lieutenant,” Connor says finally, expression turning serious as he leans forwards in his seat. Hank braces himself, his stomach turning upside down. Here we go.

“When do I get to meet your dog?”

Hank’s brain grinds to a halt.

“My… dog?” He asks numbly. Connor gives him a grin that can only be described as “shit-eating.”

“I know you have one. You have dog treats in your glove compartment, and I’ve seen dog hair on your clothes.” He leans closer, one arm stretched over the table. “Spill.”

Hank huffs and pulls out his phone, tapping it a few times before turning it towards Connor.

Connor lets out a theatrical gasp, pulling the phone close. “Now _that_ is a good boy,” he says with conviction. “I can always tell. What’s his name?”

Hank laughs, taking his phone back and tucking it in his pocket. “Sumo. And he’s probably not as good of a boy as he could be, seeing as I’m never at home to train him,” he says a little sheepishly.

“I _love_ dogs,” Connor says a little dreamily. “Once I’m done with my training period and find a place to settle down at, I’m going to get a dog too.”

“That mean you’re not staying in Detroit?” Hank asks, trying to keep his tone casual. Something must carry over anyway, because Connor flounders for a moment.

“No, I-” he starts, and then starts over. “Actually, I meant my apartment doesn’t allow pets. Once things settle down a bit I’ll have time to look for a place that would let me get a dog.” He rolls his glass between his palms, gaze flickering to stare past Hank’s shoulder. “I was thinking I quite like it here. I was hoping I could stay on as your partner. If you’re open to that,” he says, avoiding Hank’s gaze.

Hank hasn’t had a partner in years. He’s always worked best alone, and these past few years he’s also been impossible to work with. But the thought of working with Connor permanently doesn’t make him want to shoot himself in the head. In fact the thought sets something warm in his belly, and he gives Connor a slight smile.

“You solve this case and I’ll consider it,” he says, voice mock-stern. Connor laughs, drinking his beer.

“You dodged my question though. I still want to meet Sumo,” he insists, and the look he gives Hank sets alarm bells ringing in his head.

“Ah… some other time,” he says awkwardly. “I don’t do bar pick-ups.” He means it as a joke, his stupid brain forgetting who he’s with, but the moment the words are out of his mouth he knows he’s fucked up royally. Connor’s face twitches into a frown before he seems to catch himself, smoothing his expression into something neutral.

He looks like he’s about to say something but thinks better of it, settling instead with drinking his beer.

For once Hank doesn’t really feel like drinking.

 

They manage to save the conversation somehow, comparing academy stories over a generational rift. By the time it’s time to head home things are back to normal, Hank giving his best impression of his technophobic old boss learning to use a desktop. Connor’s laughing, that stupid dimple prominent on his cheek, his cowlick a mess across his brow.

There’s a moment when Connor’s taxi arrives where Hank searches for something to say, something to bridge the strange gap between them. But then Connor’s opening the car door, looking at Hank expectantly.

“See you tomorrow,” Hank says, voice soft. Connor cocks his head slightly, giving him a small smile.

“Good-night, Lieutenant,” he says, disappearing into the taxi.

 

Hank goes home alone.

 

 

 

 

Connor has to attend a training course on thursday, which leaves Hank alone to work on some older cases and to catch up on some back-log. It’s enough to distract him from the previous evening. It creeps up on him when he goes to bed that night though, Sumo curled up by his side, thoughts of Connor keeping him awake until exhaustion takes over.

There’s a part of Hank that would like to give up the pretense, just to see what would happen. He wants to know if Connor is just wounded that Hank has forgotten him, or if it’s something more. If Hank were to offer, would he take it?

He buries his face in his pillow, trying to suffocate the thoughts. He’s not supposed to let his mind go there, he shouldn’t be viewing Connor as anything but his subordinate. But with the kid continuously poking at Hank’s memories it’s hard to ignore the things he knows about Connor, the things that turned Hank on so much ten years ago.

He shoves his hands under the pillow to resist the urge to touch himself.

 

 

Friday arrives windy and cold, and with it returns Connor. He seems distant, more stand-offish than usual, and Hank wonders if something happened in training. He tries to ask about it, but Connor keeps his distance until it’s time for them to head to the Gamblers Anonymous meeting.

Hank makes an attempt at small-talk in the car, but Connor gives him short, terse answers, staring straight ahead at the windshield. It grates on Hank, it’s the exact type of behaviour that grinds on his nerves, and eventually he snaps. He pulls over to a bus stop, throwing the car into neutral, and turns to face Connor who looks around with a cornered look on his face.

“You gonna be like this all day, or you gonna tell me what crawled up your ass and died in there?”

To his amusement Connor looks a little affronted at his turn of phrase. He huffs, folding his hands in his lap.

“Nothing. No need for you to take things so personally,” he says coldly, meeting Hank’s gaze unwaveringly.

Hank feels thrown, a little hurt by Connor’s hostility.

“Fuck you,” he growls eventually, flicking on the turn signal and heading back into traffic. Where Connor gets off on on jerking Hank back and forth like this, hot and cold, Hank doesn’t know, but he sure as fuck isn’t going to take any attitude from him.

He’s not completely blind to his hypocrisy, but it’s different. 

 

It’s different, he keeps telling himself.

Connor stays quiet, but Hank can feel his eyes on him.

 

 

 

The Step meeting is nearing its end when they arrive. They hang back, not wanting to interrupt.

Hank takes in the posters and the pamphlets, avoiding the AA leaflets with a guilty feeling. He tries not to think about it too much - he drinks, it makes life easier, it lets him do his job. He doesn’t have much of a social life outside of the other regulars at Jimmy’s, and he doesn’t need to read the stupid print-outs to know he’d tick many of the qualifiers.

He functions, on most days, and it’s enough for now.

In fact, he’d like a drink right now. Just to get him through this. To make Connor’s proximity more tolerable.

 

The meeting ends, people milling about getting free coffee and stale donuts. Hank lets Connor do the legwork. He shows around the first victim’s picture, but no one seems to recognise him.

Eventually they talk to the man leading the meeting who introduces himself as Ron Hutton. He doesn’t recognise the first victim either, but he does know the other two.

“Franks was Tom’s sponsor,” he says, pointing at the printed pictures. “I didn’t approve of it - Franks wasn’t as committed to staying away from Gambling as Tom was,” he sighs. “I suspected he’d relapsed several times. Tom was the real deal, he was dead-set on quitting. He hadn’t even told his wife, he was sure he could beat this thing on his own.”

It explains why Waters’s wife hadn’t been able to tell them anything about the sobriety chip.

“You know if they had any mutual friends?” Hank asks, and Hutton hesitates.

“Look, it doesn’t make us look good if the people who come here just end up relapsing together,” he says, looking at them pleadingly. Neither of them speaks, and Hutton sighs.

“I only found out Tom had died recently. I’d rather not think it had anything to do with this.” He gestures weakly at the room, a circle of chairs still centered in the middle of the floor.

“There was a poker chip placed on his corpse. Three people are dead,” Connor says, surprising Hank with the harsh tone. It seems to work though.

Hutton’s face falls, his gaze flicking from Hank’s to Connor’s.

“Okay, okay. I know Franks was frequenting underground gambling dens. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d dragged Tom into one of them - I always suspected Franks was just here to prey on people. We’d been talking about banning him, but... “ He looks at them, defeated. “I guess we were too late, huh?”

“You can’t hold their hands through everything,” Hank says gruffly, patting Hutton’s shoulder. “Tom still had his chip. That has to mean something.”

“Thanks. I mean, you do your best, but you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped, you know,” Hutton says, and Hank nods, trying to shut up his own guilty conscience.

 

 

“So what’s next,” Connor asks as they head to the car.

Hank folds his arms over the roof of the car, thinking.

“We go through Tom Waters’s phone records and cell tower locations to see if it leads us anywhere,” he says, ruffling his hand through his hair. It’s getting long, badly in need of a cut.

“Come on, we’ll go to the precinct to access the records.”

 

 

 

 

The precinct turns out to be in chaos. The cells are full and the bull-pen is bustling with officers and detectives trying to make sense of a big prostitution raid, and Hank finds his temper is getting frayed until he’s clinging to sanity by the skin of his teeth. He and Reed nearly get into a fist-fight over something so insignificant that Fowler nearly suspends them both.

“Fuck this, I’m going home,” Hank growls, grabbing a pile of A4s. Connor looks at him, a panicked look on his face.

“Wait- we have pages upon pages to go through,” he pleads, looking as harrowed as Hank feels.

“Fuck. Okay, let’s do this at mine,” Hank groans, grabbing his coat and heading to the doors, not caring to see if Connor’s following or not. He nearly gets bowled over by a guy trying to escape before two officers wrestle him back. A woman is screeching at the man, trying to attack him, and Hank just wants out of here.

He feels oddly pleased when he realises Connor is in fact following him across the parking lot.

 

 

 

 

 

“Well, you wanted to meet Sumo,” Hank says, opening his front door to let them in.

Sumo is waiting for him, butting his head against Hank’s thigh, tail thumping a steady beat against the wall as he sniffs and huffs at Hank’s clothes before turning his attention to Connor.

Connor squats down and nearly gets pushed onto his back when Sumo familiarises himself with him, rubbing his huge head against Connor’s chest. To Connor’s credit he just laughs, ruffling Sumo’s neck, petting him with long, broad strokes. Hank watches with approval before he heads to the back door to let Sumo out for a piss.

“Just put the papers on the table,” he says, pointing. “Sorry about the mess, I wasn’t expecting company.”

It’s a mild disaster. Dirty dishes, empty bottles, take-out containers, an accumulation of dust that’s not out of place in any good, single cop’s home, and a hell of a lot more dog-hair than is the standard, even for a St Bernard owner. Hank tries not to think about what can be read from the chaos.

Connor seems intrigued though, detouring into the living room to look at his record collection and his bookshelf. Hank makes an awkward, aborted move when he sees Connor reach for a book on his shelf.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop,” Connor says, but he doesn’t put the book away. “You have a lot of first editions,” he says, without even looking at the other books.

Hank stares at him, speechless, not knowing what the fuck to say. Eventually Connor gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Nevermind. Where do we start?”

 

They end up buried in the paperwork. Hank digs out some highlighters so they can underline recurring numbers and locations. He takes the phone and text records, Connor gets the location pings. It’s a tedious, quiet job, the only sound in the house besides the rustling of paper and squeak of a marker being Sumo’s heavy, sleepy breathing in the corner.

The sheer mind-numbing nature of the job seems to thaw Connor a little bit, however, and Hank no longer feels like he’s in the dog house. Not that it’s clear to him how he’d ended up there in the first place, but it’s nice to be able to get complete sentences out of the kid.

Eventually Hank gets up to brew some coffee and put his hair up, tying it up in a messy (and probably embarrassing) pony-tail. Connor looks up when he sits down, his mouth falling open a little.

“What?” Hank snaps, self-conscious and moody, hands clenched into fists on his thighs.

“Nothing,” Connor mutters, dragging his eyes away from Hank’s hair. “You-” he stops, clearing his throat. “Uh, it suits you,” he says, cheeks turning ruddy, and isn’t that just precious. Hank has no idea what to do with it, ignores the pool of warmth gathering at the pit of his belly.

 

Fueled by coffee and not much else, they end up going through most of the records. By the time Hank’s making a second pot Connor makes a sound, looking up from the page he’s going through.

“This location signal has come up a few times. I looked it up, it’s in an industrial area. What business did our victim have there?”

Hank takes the page from Connor, eyeing it and the GPS mark Connor has open on his phone. He takes one of his own pages, lined with an orange highlighter, comparing them.

“Same day as Waters texted Franks about a sponsor meeting,” he drawls, jotting a mark on both papers. “I’ll ask a friend of mine if he knows about any underground gambling in this area.”

Connor nods, trying to stifle a yawn. “You have a snitch?” he asks, and Hank makes a disapproving sound.

“They’re called informants, Connor,” he says, mock reproachfully. “And uh. Not as such. He gives me tips sometimes.”

Connor pauses mid-stretch, staring at him.

“Why, Lieutenant Anderson, you don’t participate in illegal gambling now do you?”

“Does it count as gambling if it’s betting?” Hank grins.

Connor pauses, giving him a look. “Yes.”

“Well, in that, case, I guess I do.” He picks up Connor’s coffee mug, dumping it in the sink.

Connor shakes his head, going back to the papers, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

 

 

By the time they’re done it’s late, Hank’s head aching from his neck being bent for hours, his ass numb and his eyes dry and tired. Connor taps his papers into a neat pile, stretching his back luxuriously while hiding a yawn behind his palm.

“I should call a taxi,” he says, rubbing his eyes.

Hank feels a sting of guilt for having dragged the kid home and keeping him up all night, but he still hesitates for a moment before making his offer.

“You could crash on the couch,” he says, careful to keep his voice casual. Connor must be too tired to think anything of it though. He just glances at the clock, then at his phone, and nods.

“I’d appreciate that. I can change at the station tomorrow,” he says, his words trailing off into another yawn.

Together they clean up, Connor washing their coffee cups in the sink while Hank puts away the print-outs, feeds Sumo and lets him out the back door again. He takes a moment when Connor’s rinsing the dishes to appreciate the view of him standing by the sink with his sleeves rolled up, the slight shift of muscles under his white dress shirt, the way his slacks flatter his slim hips and the curve of his ass.

Christ, Hank needs to get laid.

Connor sets the dishes to dry, turning to face Hank who pretends to be busy tucking away Sumo’s food.

“We should contact your informant first thing in the morning,” Connor says, folding his arms loosely in front of him as he leans his hip against the counter. “It would be better if we can go check on any locations he knows of before evening. I suspect the patrons there wouldn’t be receptive to cops snooping around.”

Hank nods, pulling the hair tie out and scrubbing at his scalp. Connor’s eyes flicker to his hair, following the movement of Hank’s hand.

“Especially one dressed like that,” Hank says, motioning at Connor. He looks down at himself, frowning.

 “So you keep saying. If you don’t mind making a detour to my place tomorrow, I can pick something more suitable,” he says, but he doesn’t seem offended that Hank’s once again criticising his wardrobe.

“Deal. I’m losing my credibility walking around with a kid who looks like a fucking fed,” Hank grumbles, but there’s no real bite in his words.

 “You really need to stop calling me that,” Connor says, watching him. “I’m hardly a teenager,” he adds, and there’s a weight to his words that’s hard to ignore.

Hank’s about had it with him, but this hits below the belt. Hank wasn’t the one baiting older guys when he’d been barely legal, he wasn’t the one lying to his lays, and he wasn’t the one sneaking out like something shameful.

Navigating carefully around the flare of anger in him, Hank pushes himself away from where he’s leaning against a cabinet. He reaches a hand to take the wrinkled tail of Connor’s black tie between two fingers, enjoying the petty feeling of satisfaction he gets from the way Connor’s eyes widen.

Hank gives the tie a slight but sharp tug down, and lets go.

“I’ll believe that when you stop overcompensating,” he says, and then marches out of the kitchen to find the extra bedding. He resists the urge to turn around to see the look on Connor’s face.

Connor’s shut himself in the bathroom when Hank emerges, and he sets up the guest bed on the sofa quickly, something akin to anxiety clawing at his gut. He doesn’t want to continue the cat-and-mouse game tonight, doesn’t have the energy or patience to decipher Connor’s motives, not to mention make sense of his own.

He leaves Connor an extra pillow and a shrink-wrapped toothbrush he’d grabbed from a hotel once, and heads to bed. He pauses by the bathroom.

“Goodnight, detective,” he calls through the door. There’s a moment of silence.

“Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

 

 

 

 

Hank gets a few moments of peace in bed before he hears Sumo’s nails on the linoleum, and the weight of a large body climbing into bed with him. He curls his hand into the dog’s thick fur, trying to ignore the sounds of Connor getting ready for bed carrying over from the living room. He feels restless, tossing and turning until Sumo makes a pitiful sound.

“I know, I’m sorry boy,” he murmurs, scratching behind Sumo’s ear.

He lies on his back, one hand resting on his chest, palm over his faded tattoo.

Connor keeps pushing at the boundaries Hank has so steadfastly drawn between them, and Hank can’t figure out why the kid is so set on playing this game. Even worse, he can’t quite explain to himself why he allows it. Why he hasn’t marched up to Fowler and asked for Connor to be assigned to someone else, claimed they’re incompatible, and sent him off with… Fuck, Reed, probably.

He groans, turning to his side, one arm thrown over Sumo’s hulk of a form, and tries to get some sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s nice out here,” Connor says, sounding more content now. “You come here a lot?”
> 
> Hank thinks about his words. “I used to,” he says, and leaves it at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, real life's been pretty busy, plus I'm doing Inktober, hence the short chapter ;A;
> 
> [Supernova101 on Tumblr drew some amazing art](https://supernova101.tumblr.com/post/179256084761/kind-of-really-rushed-but-i-needed-to-get-this-out) for this chapter, please go see it!

Hank wakes up early, Sumo’s elbow digging in to his crotch unpleasantly. He groans his way out of bed, shoving his feet into a pair of worn slipper and heading into the kitchen for something resembling breakfast.

He nearly has a heart-attack when he hears a soft sound from behind him, and then he remembers his sleepover guest.

Connor’s still fast asleep, blankets drawn up tight to his chest as he snores blissfully on Hank’s sofa. He looks like he’s about to slide off the thing, one long, pale leg dangling over the edge, and Hank debates between waking him up politely or-

Sumo pads into the kitchen at the sound of the treat-bag being rustled. Reaching quietly over the back of the couch, Hank places a treat on the blankets over Connor’s belly and retreats to brewing a fresh pot of coffee as he waits.

There’s the scrabbling of nails on the floor, the sound of something heavy flopping down, and then a winded groan as Connor tries to come to terms with waking up to a sudden lapful of St Bernard pinning him in place.

“Your dog’s fat,” Connor grunts, voice weak as he lies trapped under Sumo, defeated. Hank peers down at him, handing him a mug.

“He’s not, he’s just well-defined,” Hank says indignantly, and just to be a shit he drops two cubes of sugar into Connor’s coffee. Connor gives a wounded sniff, but realising he’s more or less stuck, submits and drinks what he’s been given.

Hank fries up a few eggs with toast, and by the time he sets the table Connor has accepted his role as a dog-mattress. He’s petting Sumo’s head gently; soft, slow strokes along the hair that Hank knows full well is silky-soft and warm. He feels a jab of guilt under his ribs - he hasn’t been giving the dog as much attention as he deserves lately, barely walking him and rarely playing with him. He promises to change that, once they’re done with this case.

Sumo’s tail gives a few lazy wags as he enjoys the pettings, his large, wet tongue lolling out to get a taste of Connor’s wrist and forearm.

“Oh, okay, eugh,” Connor says wiping his arm on the blankets, and Hank pardons him. Being covered in dog drool doesn’t seem like Connor’s thing. Maybe with a dog of his own he’d loosen up a little, Hank thinks.

He snaps his fingers and points, and obediently Sumo clambers off the sofa and into his own doggy bed. Connor watches with interest, sitting up and stretching his back until it pops.

“You’ve got him trained well,” he says, tone a little admiring, and Hank resists the urge to preen.

“Most of it wasn’t my doing, all the groundwork was done when he was a puppy. He was supposed to join the K9 unit,” he says humbly, fondly watching Sumo try to tear apart a toy. “But turns out he doesn’t quite have the stomach for it. Poor dog’s a complete coward,” he chuckles, throwing Sumo another treat. “He’s smart, but still a coward.”

 

After breakfast they take turns using the bathroom (Connor turns an interesting shade of red when he nearly walks into Hank exiting the bathroom, wet and wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist), and then Hank drives them to Connor’s apartment.

“You want to come up?” Connor offers, and Hank can’t resist the temptation. He wants to see how Connor lives.

 

 

Turns out, he lives in the middle of controlled chaos. It’s not the same kind of disorganised mess Hank’s house is in - instead the place is full of neatly labeled cardboard boxes, piles of folded clothes, and - Hank’s amused to see - the same landscape of take-out containers as Hank’s kitchen, though admittedly from marginally healthier restaurants, and more neatly piled up on the kitchen counter.

“Sorry, ah- just sit down wherever,” Connor blusters, grabbing a pile of clothes on the sofa and moving it to the floor to make room for Hank to park his ass. “I’ll be quick,” he says, closing what Hank assumes is the bedroom door behind him.

The apartment’s small, and a little sad. Hank knows he doesn’t really have room to cast stones in terms of housekeeping standards, but the lack of personal effects or attempts to make the place a little more homey makes Hank feel uncomfortable. He tries to wave it off with the excuse that Connor moved in fairly recently, and perhaps he’s unwilling to unpack and settle down until things stabilise a little. The overall impression in the apartment is that of a storage facility - everything neatly organised and packed away, not so much as a post-card on the fridge, not even curtains on the windows. The only personal items are some training manuals on the coffee table, a worn copy of Michigan state criminal laws, and some paperwork he’s brought home. As though Connor barely exists outside of the force.

He sighs, flopping against the back of the sofa and upsetting a pile of neatly folded towels. There are several boxes labeled simply “books” in the corner, and he itches to go see what kind of literature Connor’s into.

He’s still debating on whether or not to snoop when Connor emerges from his bedroom, this time looking more like a human being and less like a government official’s wet dream. Hank looks at him over his arm draped over the sofa while Connor starts to belatedly clean the apartment. Dark jeans, a button-up with a pale checkered pattern layered over a t-shirt, and a dark blue technical jacket. Hank can see the chain of his badge tucked under his shirt.

“You’ve seen my place, you don’t need to clean on my account,” Hank drawls, amused. Connor freezes and straightens from where he’s trying to stuff take-out containers into the trash, looking a little sheepish.

“Right. I don’t usually live in the middle of a mess like this,” he says, gesturing feebly. “I actually do a fair amount of cooking, but the past few months have been pretty hectic…”

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Hank says, waving his hand dismissively. “But you should at least get a plant or something, kid. This place is depressing.”

Connor seems to hunker up with embarrassment at that.

“I kill cactuses,” he mumbles quietly as he picks up his keys and leads them out the door.

 

 

 

Pedro gives them two addresses in the outskirts of the area Waters’s phone logged at. The first one turns out to have been condemned weeks ago, nothing but rubble and backhoes waiting for them when they arrive, but the second one is still standing, set in a building that advertises itself to be the headquarters of a construction company that Hank’s sure when bankrupt years ago.

“This isn’t organised crime,” Connor says as they peer at the dusty windows. “It’s just a gambling den. Someone organises a tournament, another person is responsible for finding the players, and you’re free to use anything from money to a deed to your house a collateral.”

“How come you know so much about this shit anyway?” Hank asks as they circle the building. “Michigan’s hardly known for its gambling culture.”

Connor snorts as he tries a door, but everything’s locked up. Hank wonders if it’s worth breaking in - they’re well within the legal parameters to go in without a warrant - or if they’ll get more out of coming back when there’s a game going on.

“First murder case I assisted with, the victim was a compulsive gambler,” Connor says as and then lets out a surprised sound when the door he’s trying swings wide open. “Lieutenant…”

Hank unclips his weapon, leaving it in the holster, and flicks on his flashlight. Connor follows suit, and they enter the dark building side by side.

“Kinda careless, don’t you think,” Hank murmurs as they navigate the rooms, lit with the grimy light shining through the high paned windows. Connor seems sensitive to the dust in the air, setting him off coughing like his lungs are about to resign.

“Maybe they’ve emptied out. Locations are often rotated,” Connor says as he catches his breath.

That seems to be the case - Hank’s tension finally uncoils as they discover one empty room after another. The place has been well cleaned out, only a few footprints marring the already accumulating dust on the ground. Hank takes a few photos of them anyway. They look around a little bit longer until Connor’s sneezing starts to get on Hank’s nerves, and eventually they head back out.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Hank growls, kicking a stone and sending it careening down the parking lot. He messages Pedro, asking him to keep an ear out for any new activity. In response he gets a tip for tonight’s race. He ignores it.

 

 

They go get sandwiches from a street vendor, and Hank has a momentary lapse of sanity and takes Connor to the overlook spot by the playground. The kid’s looking like someone just stepped on all his toys, disappointed from drawing a blank this morning, and Hank feels the unexpected need to cheer him up a little.

The city glows in the gold autumn light, already hued towards the grey of winter. They sit on a bench in silence, the sound of children playing in the park like nails on chalkboard to Hank.

“It’s nice out here,” Connor says, sounding more content now. “You come here a lot?”

Hank thinks about his words. “I used to,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Connor’s silent for a moment, resting his elbows on his knees. He doesn’t look at Hank when he speaks.

“Before you lost your son?” He asks quietly.

It takes a moment for Hank to process what those words mean.

“You looked me up?!” He says, shooting to his feet, voice louder and harsher than he intends, but the anger and shame are burning a hole in his chest. Connor looks up, startled.

“I didn’t - You had a file on me, I figured it was only fair. I just wanted to know!” He says defensively, palms raised up. “I wasn’t - _snooping_ , or anything, I just-!”

“You had no right - I’m your fucking mentor, of course I had your file, and I didn’t go digging up your past. There’s such a thing as privacy, Connor, fuck’s sake!” He yells, drawing looks from the park. Connor stands up, approaching him like one would an angry dog. Hank’s way ahead of him.

“And don’t you _fucking_ start patronising me,” he snarls, turning away from Connor and stomping towards the railing, standing there with his hand rubbing the ache in his chest.

Connor joins him eventually. They stare quietly at the city bathing in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says gently. “I just… wanted to know more. About who you were before. Before-”

He falls silent, and Hank wants to just walk away from this now.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Hank tenses, Connor’s soft, defeated tone causing something hard and bitter to well up in his throat. He swallows past it.

“The fuck are you talking about?” he answers, forcing the irritation and confusion into his voice. Connor looks at him, holding his gaze before he breaks and looks away.

“Nothing. Nevermind, it doesn’t matter.”

Hank wants to erase the past five minutes, wants it all to go away. He wants to reach out to Connor, to do something to undo the hurt frown on his face, the weak cadence in his voice. To undo all the lies.

Instead he grabs the empty sandwich wrapper from him and stuffs it into a garbage bin and starts heading to the car.

Instead of starting the engine right away, he turns down the music and sits quietly. Connor waits, holding his coin but not moving.

“You know how- how he died?”

He can hear Connor swallow, the sound loud in the silence.

“Yes. I’m sorry, Hank,” he says, the sound of his first name rolling off his tongue igniting something in Hank. “I know it doesn’t mean anything, but I want you to know… It’s not the same, but my mom died when I was a kid and… I know how it feels. To loose someone like that,” Connor says, voice strained tight between them.

Hank can feel the burn of tears that he forces away, turning to stare out the driver’s side window. It’s the first time he’s talked about Cole with anyone in a long time, and it hurts more than he expected. Maybe less, in a way, too.

“It means something,” he says, voice a little gravelly.

 

By the time he starts the engine, the shadows have grown long.

 

 

 

 

At the precinct Connor gets a few light-hearted jabs and compliments about his change of clothes, and the pleased flush on his cheeks makes Hank’s gut tighten. They make some progress on a few older cases, and Hank has a tense but cordial conversation with Reed about a case he wants to take over, overlapping with something he and Chris have been working on.

They finally get Ritter’s phone records that day, and this time they know what they’re looking for. Calls between all three victims, same location pings.

“I guess we’re officially working on a serial killer case,” Hank sighs, leaning back in his chair. Connor hums in agreement, typing something on his computer. Hank kicks his shin under their desks, startling him.

“Don’t give me that. I know what it felt like to get my first one - I’d already been a detective for a few years by then. You should be vibrating out of your skin.”

“I doesn’t feel… decent,” Connor says, but Hank can see the jittery undercurrent to him. “But… this would certainly look good in my file if we catch him,” he adds, and the smile he’s wearing is nothing short of sly.

It’s a good look on him.

 

 

“You coming?” Hank asks, pulling on his coat. Connor turns off his desktop, glancing towards the back of the bull-pen.

“A bunch of us are going out for a few beers,” he says, turning to look at Hank. “Join us?” he say, tone a little cautious. Hank takes in the group waiting for Connor, and shakes his head .

“Nah. I don’t think I’m the kind of company they’re looking for right now,” he says, giving Connor a lopsided smile. Their earlier exchange still bears heavy on his mind - Connor’s quiet resignation, and the ache of talking about Cole.

Connor frowns, the corner of his mouth turning down, as though he disapproves, but eventually he relents.

“Alright. See you tomorrow, Lieutenant,” he says, giving him a small wave.

“Night, Connor.”

 

 

That night he dreams in grey and red. He dreams of Connor taking a bullet, thick and viscous red oozing from a hole in his skull, his eyes dark and unblinking as they stare unseeingly at Hank. Hank’s gun hangs limply from his hand, heavy and cold and useless. A crowd gathers around them, accusing in their silence, and Hank feels himself shrink into it, swallowed up by the darkness, blood red dripping onto him from somewhere above.

He wakes up sweating, full of dread that won’t recede. He can’t shake the clammy coldness, not until his third too-full glass of whiskey that he drinks too fast on an empty stomach. He sinks into the numbing void, welcoming the blanket of intoxication.

 

 

The next morning is hell. He doesn’t show up until noon, and Connor’s pointed lack of criticism makes Hank want to tear his hair out.

He’s moody the whole day, everyone giving him a wide berth. Connor’s still going through the phone records, cross-referencing them, and Hank feels guilty for letting him do it on his own.

His hangover still wins, and he spends most of his day catching up on paper-work, filing old case files and some routine reports of Connor’s performance.

When it’s time to head home, Connor declines the ride.

“I think I need a walk to clear my head,” he says, not quite meeting Hank’s eye.

 

The case grinds to a halt after that. The few other cell tower locations draw a blank from Pedro, and though they try to find something by doing old traditional legwork, nothing turns up. They waste several days on it until Fowler drags them back into other, more recent cases.

At least he doesn’t threaten to hand the case over to Reed, recognising that for now there’s nothing for anyone to do. Hank keeps checking up with Pedro just in case, and Connor keeps the phone records in his drawers.

 

Connor seems to have accepted that the past is in the past too. Hank feels something in himself relax, little by little, as Connor stops trying to drop hints like bullets. Things get easier between them, both of them less worried about over-stepping. Connor still goes cold and distant and painfully polite on the days Hank shows up at noon, smelling of old alcohol and wanting to disappear into a hole in the ground, but he always thaws eventually. The guilt is still enough to make Hank drink a little less often, a little less hard.

They do have drinks - sometimes with others from the precinct (when Hank is feeling social), more often just the two of them. Sometimes Connor will come over to play with Sumo or to watch a movie, and slowly Hank stops thinking of him as some kid (though he still calls him that, just to see the indignation on Connor’s face), and starts to see how Connor has changed in ten years. Not that he ever knew Connor truly, before, but he seems to have less to prove now. He’s quiet and competent, but he’s still far from a wall-flower.

Hank watches him gain confidence on scenes, in interrogation rooms, with their colleagues, and admires the easy way with which he navigates conflicts, the sharp intuition he has that makes Hank feel obsolete. Connor represents a new generation of law enforcement, and if this is the way it’s heading, Hank can look towards retirement with an easy heart. And in the meantime it makes him want to work a little harder, finding some part of his younger self coming back to life as they work their cases.

Waving Connor away in a taxi one night, he realises it’s been a long time since he’s had an actual friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Supernova101 on Tumblr drew some amazing art](https://supernova101.tumblr.com/post/179256084761/kind-of-really-rushed-but-i-needed-to-get-this-out) for this chapter, please go see it!
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr @roomfullofcunts/synekdokee.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He holds his gun low along his body as he searches behind cars and dumpsters, his heart-rate picking up the smaller his search area gets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd as usual thank you to my beta, RedxLuna <3
> 
> [Supernova101 on Tumblr drew some amazing art](https://supernova101.tumblr.com/post/179256084761/kind-of-really-rushed-but-i-needed-to-get-this-out) for the previous chapter, please go see it!
> 
> And come find me on Tumblr @roomfullofcunts/synekdokee.

October crawls along, and Hank makes sure Jeffrey remembers not to expect him at work on the 13th.

He visits the grave early in the morning. The teddy bear he left a year ago is mouldy and soggy, and he replaces it with a plastic Stormtrooper. Once he gets home, he crawls into a bottle, and the next morning he doesn’t remember crying himself to sleep.

His revolver stays in its drawer.

On monday Connor brings him coffee, black and strong, and a donut from a pastry shop.

  
  
He receives a text from Pedro one afternoon, just as they’re returning from lunch.

“ _Game tonight. Sending you the coordinates._ ”

  
  
  
They’ve been sitting in front of the nondescript building for three hours, shivering in the cooling car. Hank’s thermos of coffee is empty, and Connor has put away his coin. Hank wants to think it’s because of his outburst about how irritating it is to watch that thing appear and disappear, spin and flick between Connor’s fingers, but he suspects it’s mostly because Connor’s hands are starting to turn stiff from the cold. Hank’s given up on his crossword puzzles a while ago.

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, ducking down in his seat and reaching to press Hank’s shoulder down.

Four people exit the building, getting into two cars. None of them match the description Pedro had provided. Connor memorises the license plates and notifies dispatch, and then they wait.

“Here they come,” Hank murmurs as two figures step out the door and start heading down the street.

They get out of the car quietly, trying to gain as much distance as they can before pulling out their badges.

“Detroit police, we’d like a word- son of a bitch!” Hank swears as they perps burst into a run, splitting up. Hank follows the man running to the left, distantly aware of Connor chasing after the other man while shouting into his radio for back-up.

He rounds a corner and ends up in a small parking lot-cum-garbage dump, and he stumbles to a stop. He listens - the man has to be here somewhere. He draws his gun, flicking the safety off.

He holds his gun low along his body as he searches behind cars and dumpsters, his heart-rate picking up the smaller his search area gets.

There’s scuffling behind him, and he whirls around, swinging his gun up, but he’s too slow. The man rams into him, knocking him into a car and sending the gun skittering from his grip. An alarm starts to blare, disorienting him, and he gets the wind knocked out of him when the man throws himself against his stomach. He brings an elbow down on the man’s kidney and twists away, stumbling against the car, and then his blood turns cold.

A glint of metal shines in the man’s hand as he surges towards Hank, and Hank jumps back, nearly falling on his ass as he trips. His pulse is pounding as he tries to find an opening, but the man keeps coming at him, knife held firmly in his fist.

Last chance, Hank thinks, feinting to the left and then throwing himself at the man, swinging his fists wildly, hitting anything he can. He’s aware of someone screaming his name over the car alarm, somewhere far away, and of something hot and wet in his side, but he doesn’t stop until he’s got the man pinned underneath him, unconscious and in cuffs.

He squats down on his haunches and then sits down on the frozen ground, panting hard. His skin is clammy with sweat, hands a little shaky.

“Holy fuck, Hank!” Connor shouts, running to the scene and all but skidding to his knees next to him. “Are you alright?”

Hank waves his hand in the air, still trying to catch his breath. “I’m fine… Get my gun, would ya?” He says, pointing towards where he dropped it. Connor nods and makes a detour to check on the perp who’s still out cold. Then he finds the gun, securing it before handing it to Hank, who lifts his coattail to tuck it back into the holster. Connor’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist, twisting his hand out of the way.

“You’re bleeding,” Connor says, voice strained.

Hank looks down, sees the red spreading on his shirt.

“Huh. Hey, so I am. Guy had a fucking knife.”

“Jesus fuck,” Connor breathes out. “Back-up’s here soon. I locked my guy in the car, he went down a little more easily than yours, it seems.”

He pulls Hank’s shirt up, revealing the wound. He hisses out a swear word, but Hank’s relieved to realise the knife didn’t go into him, just sliced along his side. The effects of the adrenaline are wearing off though, blood seeping from the wound. Connor pulls off his coat and strips his shirt quickly, pressing it against Hank’s side.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Connor murmurs, his eyes glued to his own blood-stained hands. Hank’s not sure who he’s reassuring. He sees the glow of blue lights draw nearer, and they wait without talking. His wound throbs out a dull ache to the rhythm of the car alarm.

The alarm gets silenced, the perps are collected by a patrol car (Connor tells him his stabber had come to soon enough, and then proceeded to shut up like a clam), and Hank watches with amusement as Connor nearly reduces an officer to tears for having failed to call an ambulance yet.

He’s never seen Connor like this, his usually contained efficiency released in a fury of a sniper’s precision. It does get things moving though, and soon Hank finds himself sitting in the back of an ambulance, a nice young medic stitching up his side. There’s a large, angry bruise forming around his lower sternum too.

He watches the forensic crew go through the lot and the building, frustrated that he can’t oversee it. Connor returns after making a few phone calls. His hair is a mess, his hands and undershirt stained with Hank’s blood.

“I called Reed,” he says, releasing his breath with a huff. Hank raises an eyebrow.

“I want them questioned now, before they have the time to think about what they’re going to say,” Connor says, raising his hand to his hair before he realises what he’s doing.

“Sorry about that,” Hank says, nodding at the blood.

“Oh. Don’t- don’t apologise,” Connor says, and he sounds so agonised about it that Hank feels irrationally guilty.

“Relax, kid. I’m fine,” he says, and as if on cue the medic finishes attaching a piece of bandaid over his side. “See?” He adds, pulling his ruined shirt down over his midsection. “Thanks,” he says to the medic, who pats his shoulder and tells him to take it easy. He makes a ta-daa gesture with his hands and hops off the ambulance ledge, hiding his wince.

“So what did Gavin say?”

“He told me to go fuck myself,” Connor says, sounding amused. “But he’ll do it.”

“Sounds about right,” Hank laughs. They start heading to his car, and Connor harrasses him into letting him drive.

 

“Lieutenant? Wake up.”

Somebody’s shaking him, and he jolts awake, nearly banging his head against the car roof.

“Jesus.”

Connor gives him a wry smile. “Come on, I’ll help you get settled.”

Hank climbs out of the car before Connor has the chance to try and come help him. “I’m not a fucking invalid,” he grumbles, but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he’s starting to feel a little run-down, the exhaustion, pain and blood-loss catching up with him.

He slumps down on his couch, leaning back against the seat, and lets out a relieved sigh. Sumo comes sniffing, the scent of blood making him a little frantic until he settles down at Hank’s feet, keeping an eye on him. He can hear Connor in the bathroom, probably washing the blood off.

He’s dozing again when the sofa dips under Connor’s weight, and he pries open an eye to see him wearing one of Hank’s old shirts.

“Sorry. I hope you don’t mind - I didn’t really want to be wearing your blood,” he says, offering Hank a cup of tea and a microwave-warm container of leftover Chinese.

Hank swallows, dragging his gaze away from where the stretched neck of the shirt exposes the well of Connor’s collar bones.

“It’s the least I can do,” Hank mumbles, wolfing down the fried rice. The tea warms him up and soothes him, making him even more drowsy.

“You staying?” He asks. He notices how close Connor is, how easy it would be to lift his hand and touch him. Brush his knuckles along his cheek, press a thumb into that stupid dimple, trace that lush bottom lip with the pad of a finger.

Fuck, he’s delirious.

He realises he’s staring at Connor’s mouth. He flicks his eyes up, and ends up caught in Connor’s gaze. There’s a moment that stretches between them, heavy and charged, and-

“Probably shouldn’t,” Connor says, and there’s something strained in his smile.

Hank watches mutely as he stands up and grabs his coat.

“I’ll see you at work,” Connor says softly. “Call me if you need anything.”

Hank lets him leave.

  
  
  
Jeffrey tells him to take a day off, but Hank’s not about to let Connor go through Reed’s interrogation footage on his own. Or worse yet, with Reed himself.

Connor manages not to fuss too much when Hank shows up at the precinct, but Hank can tell it’s taking all of his effort. It’s strange; he never thought of Connor as the nurturing type. He lets himself entertain the idea that Connor might have a soft spot for him before he rejects the idea. After their talk at the lookout park, after last night and the way Connor had recoiled from him, entertaining anything like that is just asking for trouble Hank doesn’t need.

“Connor, calm the fuck down. I’m fine,” he says when Connor offers to get him coffee for the third time.

“I know,” Connor says defensively. “But shouldn’t you be resting or something?”

“Not unless you want Reed to take over our case for us,” he says, and that puts a stop to Connor’s patronising fretting.

Gavin shows up a little later, tossing a CD case onto Hank’s desk. He shoots Hank an uneasy look, staring at his side like he can detect the stab wound through his clothes, and then looking away, face scrunched up. Hank’s relieved when he doesn’t try to offer awkward platitudes. Even at their best it’s not the kind of thing he needs from Reed, and he wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway.

Gavin points a finger at Connor. “You owe me one,” he says, and Connor gives him a grimace. They seem to have come to a truce of sorts though, Gavin hanging back as they watch the recordings from the night before, for once not bragging about his interrogation skills.

“The moron Connor arrested was a piece of cake - I barely had the door closed before he started talking,” he drawls, as though personally insulted by how easily the guy had spilled the beans. “He didn’t have much that would help with your case, he’s just a small-time punk. But-” He turns on the screens and inserts the disc into the reader. “This guy…”

The first ten minutes are of Reed seated across from the perp, drinking coffee while he holds a one-sided conversation with the man. It’s clear he has no intention of talking, staring at his lap mutely when Reed shows him pictures of the three victims. His hands and sleeves are covered with Hank’s blood, appearing black on the monochrome footage.

The door to the room opens and Reed gets up to talk to Chris, and then he turns to give the perp a dark look. He leaves, locking the door behind him.

Gavin leans over the console to fast-forward. “Then it’s about an hour of letting him stare at the walls while he stews, and then…” he presses play just as the Reed on the footage enters the room again, followed by two uniformed officers.

“ _I’m done here, get him the fuck out of my sight,_ ” Reed says, pressing both palms flat on the steel desk, leaning close to the perp.

“ _That cop you stabbed? He died_ ,” he says, voice so low it only barely registers to the microphone. Hank can’t quite suppress a chill at the words. Connor shoots him an indecipherable look.

“ _That’s all I need to lock you up for a very, very long time. Hey, you know how in movies they always make it seem like it’s super cool and shit to be a cop killer in jail?_ ” Gavin asks, ridicule clear in his voice even through the shitty audio quality.

“ _Well, it’s not true. I’m sure the guards and officers there are gonna have a good time with you._ ”

The Reed standing in the AV room with them snorts. “The little bitch started trembling,” he mocks, holding out a hand and giving it an exaggerated shake.  

Connor frowns, giving him a sideways look, but doesn’t comment. Hank, too, knows to pick his battles with Reed.

On the screen the perp jerks his head up. “ _Okay, wait!_ ”

Reed straightens up, staring down at him, not saying a word.

“ _I can tell you about the guys in the pictures, okay! I know them, I saw them all a couple of times,” he says frantically. “I swear, I wasn’t trying to kill him, I just needed him to back off, I promise, you gotta help me!_ ”

Reed sits down, giving the man a long look.

“ _Talk_.”

  
The man knows less than he thinks. He gives them two locations for underground tournaments where he’d seen all three victims, one of which being the empty warehouse Hank and Connor had investigated. The second is unknown to them, and Connor looks it up quickly without even taking his eyes off the screen.

“It’s a club that got shut down for drug distribution a few months back. It’s been standing empty ever since, the perfect place for some off-the-books gambling.”

Hank  nods, turning back to the screen.

“ _I know the guy who arranges these things, he arranged all the ones I saw those guys at_ ,” the perp says, pointing at the pictures Reed has laid in front of him again. “ _Or I don’t know him, I’m not like, involved in the setup, you know_ ,” he starts rambling, worried that he’s digging his own grave. “ _But he calls me sometimes, and I scout locations and shit, just small stuff, so I bet he knows who else was there, he can give names, man, I promise._ ”

He’s on the verge of crying, and Hank grimaces. It’s by far not Gavin’s ugliest interrogation, in fact it’s pretty by the book all things considered, but there’s something unpleasant about the whole scene.

Gavin turns off the recording. “The rest of it is just him sobbing into his sleeves,” he sneers disgustedly, slapping a post-it note on the desk between them. There’s a phone number scrawled on it, and the name of a carrier store downtown.

“It’s a pre-paid, but I bet the provider will co-operate in tracking the purchase. If not, getting a warrant should be child’s play,” he says, shrugging. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Hank turns to look at Gavin over his shoulder, calling out to stop him on his way out the door.

“Hey, you ever tell him I’m not dead and that he doesn’t have to look forward to being brutalised by prison guards for the next 25 years?”

Gavin cocks his head, making a point to look like he’s thinking about it.

“Oops. Must’ve slipped my mind.”

  
  
Hank hates the paperwork involved in filing for warrants. Fortunately for him, Connor seems to get a little bit off on it, filling forms and cataloguing proof so that not even the most curmudgeonly of judges can say no. Hank tries to act useful, but based on the way Connor waves his hand at him dismissively, there’s not point.

Hank makes an amused mental note to talk to Connor about his tunnel-vision and how it reflects on his behaviour. He’d like to see him try to wave Fowler off like that.

While Connor gets his jollies off from righteous paperwork, Hank watches the interrogation tapes one more time, jotting down notes (and doodling in the margins of his notebook). It feels good to have momentum again. Hank had started to worry that their killer may have stopped, skipped town or gone underground. The lack of new victims is a relief, but it also means they have nothing new to go on, and the colder the trail gets the worse their chances get.

 

“Cute,” Connor says from behind him, jolting Hank out of his reverie and nearly sending him toppling out of his chair.

“Jesus, kid,” Hank gasps, pressing a palm over his hammering heart. “Next time I’ll shoot you.”

Connor laughs, stealing Hank’s pen and leaning down to draw a little ball next to the clumsy ball-point Sumo Hank has scribbled onto the page. Hank gets an unintended whiff of the scent of him, sharp notes of an after-shave and soap. Hank swallows thickly, shifting a little further in his chair.

Connor sits on the edge of Hank’s desk, folding his arms.

“The warrant is gonna take a few hours. I doubt we’ll be able to access the phone records until tomorrow,” he says, glancing at his watch. He’s swinging one leg impatiently, a childish trait Hank is starting to find endearing.

“You need to work on your patience,” Hank says dryly, tucking his hand under his thigh to stop himself from reaching out to stop the sway of Connor’s leg. He’s been finding himself wanting to touch Connor more lately, far more than would pass as manly comradery. Especially after last night. He feels like he missed something big on his couch, a piece of a puzzle he’d constructed himself.

He knows now that denying he remembers Connor was the right thing to do. He’s sure of it - there’s no way they could’ve built a professional relationship, not if that night still means so much to Connor’s ego. And with that acknowledgement hovering between them, Hank’s not sure if he could’ve mentored Connor in an unbiased way, if he could’ve shaken that image of a gangly, overly-assured twink.

He wonders if Connor would’ve made a move on him if he’d admitted to knowing who he was. Hank’s not stupid, he knows the strange tug-and-give they’ve been dancing around for months now, and Connor doesn’t seem like the type to feign interest just to prove something. The only reason they haven’t done something monumentally stupid is Hank’s flimsy grasp on his stubborn professionalism.

Things are different now. They’re - friends, Hank admits to himself. There’s a trust that comes from working with someone in close quarters that has nothing to do with their tryst, and Hank’s not sure if he would’ve liked 18 year old Connor in the long run, if Hank at 40 would’ve had the patience for it, but Connor now is…

Hank wants him. Not just physically, though he’d be lying if he claimed he hasn’t spent a few moments with his hand on his dick wondering what it would be like to have Connor pinned down beneath him again. But there’s something bright about Connor that keeps drawing Hank’s attention, that makes him notice him in a way Hank hasn’t noticed anyone in a long time. For the first time in years Hank finds himself _yearning_ like a goddamn teenager, and he’s not sure how to cope. Regardless of everything, Connor’s still almost 25 years his junior. Every time Hank reminds himself of that fact, something ugly coils tight in his belly.

“You’re a million miles away,” Connor muses, giving him a curious look. “Going to share?”

Hank considers it for one wild moment, but then ducks his head. “Nah,” he says, pushing himself up. “I’m heading down to evidence, let me know if something new comes up.”

Connor’s face does that thing that Hank has grown to know as a vaguely concealed version of a pout, and he gives Connor’s shoulder a pat. “Nothing personal, just tired. My side still hurts like a bitch,” he adds, milking his wound for all it’s worth.

Connor nods sympathetically, hopping off Hank’s desk. “Are you sure you don’t just want to go home?” he asks, hovering a little awkwardly. It’s kinda cute, Hank admits.

“Much as I’d love to take the opportunity to slack off, I think I can manage a few more hours,” he smiles, enjoying the way Connor darts his eyes to the side almost shyly.

On his way to the evidence room he passes Gavin who gives him a look.

“You two fuckin’?” He asks, and Hank freezes on the spot.

“Are you actually _looking_ to get another disciplinary mark in your file, or would you settle for me punching you again?” he asks incredulously, and Gavin lifts his palms up. He’s lacking the customary snarl he usually sports when giving Hank his usual shit, and it throws Hank for a loop.

“Jesus, sensitive much?” Gavin drawls, backing away from him. Hank stares after him dumbly, trying to make sense of whatever the hell his life has become.

  
  
  
By the time the warrant comes through it’s too late for them to get ahold of anyone at the phone provider’s end. They decide to call it a night, and Hank drives Connor home, agreeing to reconvene early at the station to start making calls.

Connor reminds him one more time to change his bandage before wishing Hank a good night, and despite the constant throbbing ache in his side, Hank finds himself in a good mood when he arrives home. He tries to not to put too much of that on Connor, even if he admits it feels good to have someone give a shit about his well-being.

His phone rings, and his mood turns as he glances at the screen.

“ _Helen calling_.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, thumb hovering over red. He groans, swiping green and heading to his liquor cabinet.

“Hey,” he grunts, reaching for his bottle of whiskey and a glass, taking them over to the sofa.

“ _Hello, Hank._ ” Helen’s voice carries through, soft and firm as usual. It sets an ache in Hank’s chest.

“Been a while. Everything okay?” He asks awkwardly as he pours. They don’t do catch up calls.

“ _I’m calling to let you know the appeal didn’t go through._ ”

Hank stops breathing for a moment. He grips his phone hard enough that he thinks he hears it crack, anger mixing with the burn of the alcohol in his gut,

“Jesus christ, I told you I didn’t want to hear a fucking thing about-”

“ _It’s good news_ ,” she insists, exasperated, clueless. “ _That’s it, he’s not getting away with what he did to Cole, there are no more appeals, he’s-_ ”

“I said I didn’t want to hear it,” Hank snaps. God, he wants to throw something. “None of it is gonna change a fucking thing, I don’t want to be dragged back into it, I _can’t_...” He trails off, the heel of his palm pressed hard against his sternum.

“ _Just because you put it behind yourself and moved on-_ ”

“Fuck you, Helen,” he spits, and throws his phone against a wall. It shatters and goes dark. Sumo scrambles up, startled by the sound. Hank pours himself more whiskey and watches his dog slowly inch closer to the corpse of Hank’s phone, sniffing cautiously.

A two minute phone call and Hank’s fingers are itching to go get his revolver. He knocks his drink down, feeling it slither into his gut, burning through him.

 _Fuck her_ , he thinks. Fuck her and her never-ending quest for justice, fuck her for not letting Cole rest in peace, fuck her for net letting Hank grieve in silence.

He rubs his hands against his stinging eyes, glancing at the shelf where his son’s picture sits in a silver frame.

Like Hank doesn’t miss him every day. Like he’s a monster for not hurting all the time anymore. Like it’s less meaningful that he’s starting to remember the good times, instead of repeatedly returning back to the days before and after the funeral.

This is why they divorced. Incompatible in their grief. Helen had been incapable of moving past the anger, Hank past his guilt. Every time she’d raged against the truck driver, the surgeon, the justice system, Hank had felt her rage against him.

He knows she’d taken his numbness for indifference. That’s what had hurt the most.

He gets up and picks up the picture, moving to sit at the dining table. He pours, hands already shaky. He can’t really even taste the cheap whiskey anymore, he can only feel the burn of it in his throat and his gut.  

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and he drinks until he reaches a point where he can’t think anymore.

  
  
  
  
His cheek hurts.

“ _Lieutenant! Hank!_ ” Someone calls, and he blinks, head swimming and nausea welling in his stomach.

“Oh, thank god,” Connor sighs, pulling him up by his arm until he’s sitting, his vision swaying.

“Connor?” he slurs, twisting away from the grip Connor has on his biceps.

“I’m sorry, I think I broke your window,” Connor says. “I was worried. You didn’t show up at the precinct and I tried calling you. I reached the service provider-” he breaks off, trying to hoist Hank up. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“Fuck off, kid,” Hank growls, trying to push Connor away. It only sends him stumbling, and Connor has to stabilise him by propping them both against a wall.

“Christ, you’re heavy,” he groans, ignoring Hank’s grumbling. “Are you going to be sick?”

“I can handle my drink fine,” Hank snaps, feeling along the wall towards the bedroom.

“Oh sure, that’s why I found you unconscious on your kitchen floor, Lieutenant,” Connor says sharply. Hank wonders if he’s more pissed off that he’s finally realising Hank’s failed to live up to someone from a decade ago, or if he’s just disappointed that a superior he’d looked up has turned out to be such a fuck up. Either option results in an ache in Hank’s chest, and he reconsiders his need to be sick.

“Do you want to talk about?” Connor asks, voice so gentle it sets Hank’s teeth on edge. Connor’s eyes dart to the picture still on the dining table, and when he looks back to Hank the look of pity on his face makes Hank want to puke.

“No,” he snaps, pushing Connor away a little harder than necessary. He presses his forehead against the cool wall, swearing under his breath.

“Hel- My ex wife called.”

Connor stands quietly, keeping his distance.

“It doesn’t matter why, it’s not her fault, she just… it triggers bad memories.” Hank takes a deep breath, turning to lean his back to the wall. He looks past Connor, finally registering the way his window is forced open, the frame crooked after Connor must’ve broken his way in.

He snorts, even though it sends a sharp jab of pain through his head. He gestures at the window, and Connor glances at it, cheeks reddening.

“I’m sorry. I’ll pay for that,” he mumbles, and Hank grunts, shaking his head.

“It’s fine. I, uh. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says awkwardly, suddenly aware of how fucked up the situation is. Connor shouldn’t need to be taking care of his drunk of a superior officer. Hank has let him down on so many levels. And yet Connor hadn’t called Fowler, instead choosing to handle things on his own, as though Hank deserves that kind of mercy.

Still, here he was, worry and kindness practically radiating off of him, not that Hank has ever fucking earned it.

He manages to walk up to Connor without falling over or staggering too much. He pats Connor’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and Connor’s flush seems to grow deeper.

“I’m sorry, Connor,” he says softly, guilt hanging heavy over him. “You shouldn’t… I realise how fucking inappropriate this is. I promise I’m never putting  you in a situation like this again.”

Connor swallows, his eyes a little wide as he looks up at Hank. “One step at a time,” he smiles. Hank thinks he must still be drunk, because for a moment it feels like Connor is leaning closer, moving into Hank’s space. His hand reaches up to cover Hank’s, warm and steady over Hank’s spread fingers.

“We should get you sobered up,” Connor says, but he doesn’t move, his thumb rubbing circles over Hank’s skin. Hank’s mouth is suddenly dry, his throat like sand-paper when he swallows. Heat curls in his stomach as he imagines pulling Connor closer, right up into Hank’s chest.

His hand feels heavy when he withdraws it, taking a step back. The space between them opens up, filled with empty air.

Hank makes his way to the bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head buried in his hands. The room spins. He can sense Connor hovering in the doorway.

“Get me some water, will ya?” Hank says, defeated. Connor’s footsteps recede, and Hank draws in a deep breath, trying to push away the hangover fog.

“Here,” Connor says, seemingly appearing out of nowhere as he holds out a tall glass of cool water and an aspirin. He lays a reassuring hand on Hank’s shoulder, rubbing lightly. It feels surprisingly nice, anchoring him. The spinning seems to go away.

“These don’t work,” Hank says as he takes the aspirin, but he swallows it anyway.

“If you’d _actually_ gone to University you’d know that the best way to defeat a hangover is to never let your blood alcohol level hit zero,” he laughs.

It takes him a moment to register the fact that the warmth of Connor’s hand is gone. By the time it does, the front-door is slamming closed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once he makes the mistake of letting himself imagine the look on Connor’s face when the penny had dropped, and it’s like being stabbed between the ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy mackerel, thank you for the comments on the previous chapter. It was incredibly gratifying to see that it landed exactly as I'd hoped. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta RedxLuna for tolerating my bad scheduling.

Hank has always been pretty good at repression and denial. After Connor storms out he crawls to bed, pulling up the covers and taking comfort in Sumo’s heavy body next to him. It’s easy to fall asleep when his hangover works as an efficient distraction to the sick feeling that has nothing to do with alcohol.

He can pretend everything’s fine the next morning while he gets ready for work. He slams his broken window shut, jamming the frame into place. He showers and walks Sumo and every time Connor swims back into his thoughts he shoves it back down along with the rising nausea.

Once he makes the mistake of letting himself imagine the look on Connor’s face when the penny had dropped, and it’s like being stabbed between the ribs.

It’s a little harder to ignore the fact that Connor’s desk is unoccupied when Hank arrives. When he hasn’t shown up by noon, and his phone goes straight to voicemail, even Hank can’t keep pretending things are fine.

 

“He took today off,” Fowler tells him, barely glancing up. “Not sure how you managed to piss him off, but he said he needed time away from the case.” He finally meets Hank’s eye. “I told you it’d be too much for him.”

Guilt shifts inside Hank. He doesn’t want to throw Connor under the bus. At least in this he should try to hold on to some semblance of professionalism.

He clears his throat awkwardly. “It’s not that. We had a… disagreement,” he manages to say.

“Christ, Hank, I was joking about pissing him off. You two were getting on well, what the fuck happened.”

Hank hesitates, wondering how much he should tell.

“Helen called,” he says.

“Ah.” Jeffrey nods, face scrunched up in understanding.

“So I may have… fallen into some old habits. Connor came by. He was understandably upset,” Hank says, gazing at the ceiling. There’s a moment of silence, and then Jeffrey sighs.

“This is between the two of you, I’m not going to get involved. If Connor doesn’t want to work with you, get Gavin to help you with the case. I’ll talk to Connor when he returns to work.”

“Fuck, no,” Hank groans, but the look Jeffrey gives him doesn’t leave much room for argument.

 

Getting Reed on board to a murder investigation isn’t difficult, but dodging his questions about Connor’s absence is.

“Did you finally rub off on him?” Reed says, flipping through the case files. “Is he somewhere nursing a hangover?”

It lacks Reed’s usual venom, like he’s just giving him shit for the sake of it. Hank doesn’t react, even though he feels a strong urge to defend Connor. Connor’s not a fuck-up like Hank is, and regardless of everything Hank won’t let his reputation sully Connor’s.

Reed sets the file down and leans across his desk, eyes sharp. Hank mutters a curse.

“Seriously, you two have a tiff? Did the case get to him? Is he running back to Ann Arbor?”

That sends a jolt through Hank. He doesn’t think Connor would actually quit over this, but the fear still lingers. What if he applies for a transfer without coming back, this whole thing between them left ripped open like an old scar.

Reed must see something on his face. He lifts an eyebrow, tilting his head up, smug.

“Ohh. Shit, didn’t mean to step in anything,” he says, voice a little too gleeful.

“The hell you didn’t,” Hank snaps, taking the file and shoving it into Reed’s chest. “Go do your fucking job and leave me alone, there’s months of phone records to go through.”

Reed looks at him, face so twisted with disappointment and disgust over being handed paperwork that Hank almost laughs.

“I thought we’re tracking down the buyer?” Gavin says, his frown making the scar on the bridge of his nose wrinkle.

“You’re going through the records,” Hank says, standing up and getting his coat. “Connor and I are going to check out the store.”

  
  
He sits outside Connor’s apartment building for ten minutes, trying to figure out what to say when he goes up. If Connor even opens the door. By the time he gets out of the car his head is so filled with variations of apologies and explanations that he has no idea now how to organise them into anything resembling a coherent sentence.

He knocks at first, and then gives in and pounds the door with his fist when Connor takes his sweet time answering. His hands feel sweaty and he rubs them together, trying to reduce some of the tension that’s making every muscle in him tighten..

The door wrenches open, and Hank’s left staring at Connor’s extremely pissed off face.

“What do you want?” Connor asks, holding on to the door. The harshness of his tone sets a ball of guilt in the pit of Hank’s stomach, heavy and uncomfortable.

“Don’t you think we should talk?”

“I don’t want to talk,” Connor snaps, but he leaves the door open when he stomps off further into the apartment.

Some of the moving boxes have disappeared, and the sofa is no longer overrun by piles of laundry. The apartment still looks depressingly barren, instilling in Hank a sudden wave of sadness at the thought of Connor moping around here, all alone.

Hank moves around gingerly, not wanting to provoke Connor more than is necessary. Whatever may or may not be salvaged between them, they still have three murder victims whose families deserve closure.

Connor watches him warily. Hank’s never seen him this closed off, everything about his body language radiating hostility. It’s a strange contradiction to his usual air of warmth and reliability.

“You _knew_ ,” Connor says, accusation heavy in his voice. “All this time _you knew_.”

Hank stuffs his hands in his pocket, shrugging his shoulders slowly. “Yeah.”

Connor turns from him with an angry huff of a laugh and a shake of his head, and Hank watches him organise something in the kitchen, slamming cupboards closed with more force than necessary. Hank stands awkwardly, waiting.

Finally Connor seems to run out of steam and he turns to face Hank, leaning back against the cupboards with his arms crossed. Even simmering with resentment he looks good, dressed in jeans and a pale blue button-down. Hank curls his hands into fists.

“I know you better than to accuse you of doing this as some sort of a cruel joke,” Connor says suddenly, voice low as he levels Hank a cold look. “But do you have any idea how _humiliating_ this is to me?”

Hank wants to reply, to defend himself, but all that escapes his throat is a weak grunt.

“I gave you dozens of chances to come clean. And when you kept acting like you had no idea who I was, I let it go, and then you started-” Connor pauses, giving a small shake of his head.

“All those looks, the- the touches, and I thought-” He breaks off again, letting out a long breath as he turns his face away from Hank.

Hank’s starting to feel like an absolute cad, the longer he stands here quietly. And yet he still can’t think of a single thing to say, everything ringing hollow in his chest. Finally he opens his mouth, tongue heavy and dry.

“It was for your benefit,” he manages to say. “I wanted to be profess-”

“Oh, _fuck you_ ,” Connor snaps, pushing himself away from the cabinets, advancing on Hank, and Hank can see the tense anger coiling in his frame. A detached part of him wonders if he’s about to get punched.

“You lied for _months_ , straight to my face. You let me make a goddamn fool out of myself god knows how many times, and it sure wasn’t out of some misguided sense of professionalism.” Connor’s voice is rising, and Hank bristles a little.

“Hey, now hold on for a sec-”

“Shut up!” Connor shouts, and Hank jolts back, eyebrows climbing to his hairline.

“Just stop, stop lying,” Connor demands, voice thin with rage. “Don’t you fucking dare to put this on me. We both know the only reason you’ve been jerking me around for four solid months is because you’re a fucking coward, Hank.”

And fuck if that doesn’t sting. And yet...

_Jerking me around._

The phrase sets a match in Hank, his own frustration finally flaring into something hot, because Connor’s not the only one who’s been having a shit time with this. Connor’s not the only one questioning himself over everything, and the insinuation that Hank has been holding this, this thing over Connor’s head is-

“You wanna talk about cowards?” He growls, resisting the urge to poke his finger in Connor’s chest. “Would you like to talk about the drunk kid lying about being in university to seem like less of a jail-bait?” He asks, and to his dark satisfaction Connor’s face flushes red, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Do you know what a shock it was for me to get your file and realise I’d taken a fucking 18 year old to bed? Yeah, I lied, and no, I didn’t do it to hurt you, and maybe if you got your head out of your ass and matured a little bit you’d realise that not everything is about you!”

It’s completely uncalled for, but even the hurt look on Connor’s face can’t get Hank to back down now, not even when he realises how loud he’s being. This has been a long time coming.

“I’m supposed to be your mentor, your superior officer. And instead of taking the way out of what could’ve potentially been a really fucking uncomfortable situation if I’d been a different kind of guy, you just had to keep poking and poking like this is a game of chicken we’re playing instead of your career! So tell me Connor - _what the fuck did you expect me to do?!_ ”

He realises he’s breathing hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. Connor stares at him, looking equally rattled.

Someone bangs on a neighbouring wall, making them both jump and turn to face it. There’s a moment of tense silence, and then Connor shouts, “fuck off!” into the general direction of his neighbour.

Hank nearly laughs then, but he’s fairly certain that it would definitely get him decked.

Connor draws in a sharp breath, turning his body away from Hank. He grabs a pile of books carefully, movements achingly composed as he starts to organise them, shuffling them against his chest like they’re a shield against Hank. He looks so awfully, awfully young and vulnerable, and Hank hates himself a little.

Hank watches him for a while, until Connor grows tense again and gives him a look that makes Hank want to reach out and touch him.

“Shouldn’t you be _leaving_ ,” Connor says, and with the heat of his fury gone from his voice his words crack, cold and harsh.

The words are out of Hank’s  mouth before he can stop himself.

“That’s _your_ thing, isn’t it?” He says, tone on the side of cruel, because when it comes to fighting he and Helen had honed that to a fine art, always looking for new places to stick a dagger in.

The problem with knowing where to strike is that it always backfires. The satisfaction of winning over his ex-wife had always been tarnished by the guilt that followed.

Watching the colour drain from Connor’s stricken face cuts Hank to the _bone_.

Connor swallows and licks his lips, and finally opens his mouth.

“You know, you can be a real bastard sometimes,” he says, voice quiet and strained with hurt.

Hank breathes out slowly through his nose, his temper simmering down, defeated. He regrets everything, wishes he could turn back the time about 10 minutes or maybe 10 years, but what else is new?

“Yeah,” he nods. “I’m going. You have five minutes to grab your shit and come down, or Reed is taking over your work.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks out of the apartment.

  
  
Connor gets in the car just as Hank is considering leaving. Five minutes have come and gone, but Hank’s not _that_ big of a piece of shit.

“Where are we going?” Connor asks, and Hank hates how detached and calm he sounds, and hates that he’s to blame for it.

“Phone store in downtown. The provider tracked the activation location, but the guy paid in cash. We’re welcome to look at their security footage though,” Hank says, trying to put some friendliness into his tone. It comes out so forced and desperate that he winces, but thankfully Connor doesn’t comment on it.

The ride is tense and awkward. The knowledge that something has been irrevocably broken presses heavy on Hank’s shoulders. He wonders if Connor will move back to Ann Arbor now, after all. Or worse yet, stay in Detroit and request another partner.

He wants to say something, to reach out and soothe away some of the ache left by their fight, but he can’t think of the right words. Connor keeps his face turned away, not giving Hank an inch.

The store is small but styled modernly, carrying the latest sleek gadgets that give Hank anxiety just from looking at them. It makes Hank feel hopeful about the quality of the surveillance tapes. They’re lead into the small office, and the clerk clicks around on the desktop for a moment before he pulls up the recording from when the number was activated.

There are two cameras trained on the register. The first one only shows the buyer’s back as he waits for the employee to set up the account. Hank requests for the second camera view, drumming his fingers as he waits for the correct time stamp to roll around. And then it does, and they get a crisp, clear view of their suspect.

Connor goes tense next to him, and Hank swears under his breath.

It’s Hutton.

Mr 12 Steps is involved in an illegal gambling ring.

  
  
  
“What a fucking piece of shit,” Hank growls as they pull up to Hutton’s address. Connor’s out of the car before Hank’s pulled the parking brake, banging on the door while Hank swears and clambers after him.

“Hey, we’re still partners,” he snaps when he reaches Connor’s side. Connor ignores him, calling out into the apartment and identifying them.

Hank leans to peek in through a window, but the place seems dark and empty. The door to the next apartment opens, and an older woman steps out, looking annoyed.

“Can I help you?” She says, in a tone that clearly suggests she’d rather not. Hank shows her his badge, and her hands go to her hips, her stance defensive.

“We’re looking for Mr Hutton - have you seen him?” Connor asks, voice as polite as ever. The woman hesitates and then steps out into the yard.

“I’m his landlady. I haven’t seen him in a few days though, I don’t think he’s been home. Is he in trouble?” She asks, and Hank rolls his eyes at the nosy, almost gleeful tone.

“Thanks for your help,” he says, and grabs Connor by the shoulder to lead him back to the car. Connor steps away from him, but at least he doesn’t act like Hank’s touch is radioactive.

”It’s a bit too much of a coincidence,” Connor says in the car. Hank hums in agreement.

”He’s our most likely suspect,” he muses, sparing a thought to the convincingly concerned show Hutton had put on when they’d questioned him. “That fucking old mousy accountant appearance on him sure had me fooled,” he mutters.

“So now what?” Connor asks after they’ve put out an APB on Hutton.

“I have an idea,” Hank says, dialing his phone. It rings twice, and then Reed’s bored drawl fills the car.

“ _What?_ ”

“Fuck, didn’t your mother teach you any manners?” Hank grumbles, and his stomach does a little flip when he sees the corner of Connor’s mouth twitch.  “I need you to prepare our stab-happy little jailbird, we need to talk to him.”

“ _What, Davis?_ ” Reed says, sounding irritated. “ _I told you, he doesn’t know anything else._ ”

“Just fucking do it, will ya? I’ll explain at the station.”

“ _Bring me a donut and I’ll do it_.”

Hank can almost see the shit-eating grin on Gavin’s face right about now.  

“Go stick your dick in a shredder,” he snaps, hanging up on Reed’s laughter.

He makes a detour to a bakery anyway, explaining his plan to Connor on the way.

He picks out a six pack of donuts while Connor waits in the car, getting one of the disgusting liquorice ones Reed seems to favour. Then he sheepishly picks out two raspberry-lemon ones because he knows Connor likes the tartness. It’s a shit olive-branch all things considered, but it’s the best Hank can do on short notice.

  
  
Reed’s gotten Davis out of his cell and into an interrogation room by the time they arrive, earning his vile donut. Hank dumps the box on Reed’s table and receives a mute thumbs up from him as he bites into the black frosting. Connor hesitates and then grabs one of the raspberry ones, thanking Hank softly, a hint of pink on his pale cheeks.

“So what’s the plan?” Reed asks around a mouthful of donut. Hank fills him in on Hutton’s disappearance quickly.

“So, why don’t we use Davis as a bait,” Hank suggests, trying to not let his eyes wander to where Connor’s tongue is licking jam off his thumb. “Let’s have him call Hutton in panic, ask him to meet him somewhere. Let’s smoke him out of whatever hole he’s hiding in.”

Reed considers it, and then he shrugs. “Yeah, I’m in.”

“This is still our case,” Connor interjects suddenly, voice firm, not lacking challenge. Gavin gives him a calculating look, dragging his gaze from Connor to Hank. He opens his mouth and Hank can practically see some hurtful observation sitting on the tip of his tongue, and he gives Reed a sharp shake of his head.

To his surprise Gavin narrows his eyes and shuts his mouth again, giving Hank a long look.

“Okay, consider me a helping hand,” he finally says, getting out of his chair and heading towards interrogation. He turns around, taking a few backwards steps as he addresses Hank.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” he says innocently. Hank raises an eyebrow as he pauses to unlock the door.

“Ah. You still haven’t told him I’m alive.”

Gavin grins, all teeth, and disappears into the surveillance room.

  
  
  
Davis looks like he’s seen a ghost when Hank and Connor enter the room, and Hank has to use all of his willpower to keep down the wolfish smile threatening to bubble up.

“No hard feelings,” he says, sitting across from Davis, Connor hovering somewhere behind him.

“You, you’re-” David stutters, wringing his cuffed hands.

“Alive. Yeah, you can stop shitting bricks now,” Hank says easily, and then slides Davis’s phone over to him. “We need a favour from you.”

Davis flicks his eyes from Hank to Connor, looking guarded. “Like what?”

“Like you might get a reduced sentence, moron,” Hank says irritably. “We need you to call the guy who organises the tournaments. We just want to talk to him. Tell him cops have been sniffing after you and you want to meet. Make it convincing, and it should go without saying that you don’t tell him where you are.”

Davis nods, picking up the phone shakily and scrolling to his calls to pick a number.

Connor steps closer, and when Hank steals a glance towards him, there’s an intense look on his face that Hank’s never seen before, his whole body almost vibrating with tension.

There’s a chance Hutton’s ditched the phone, and Hank’s hands grip his thighs while it rings. Then Hutton’s reedy voice comes through the speaker, and something uncoils in Hank.

Davis plays his part well. Perhaps it helps that he doesn’t know Hutton is the main suspect in the murder of three people, and Hutton doesn’t seem suspicious. The panic Davis puts into his pleads to meet up are genuine enough that Hank feels a little sorry for him. It abates with every twinge of his bandaged side though.

“I don’t know what they know man,” Davis says into the phone, staring at Hank and Connor wide-eyed. “I haven’t told them anything, but if you don’t fucking help me get them off my back I’ll tell them who puts the games together!”

“ _Fine_ ,” Hutton says, voice tinny through the phone. “ _Meet_ _me_ _at_ _the_ _factory_ _at_ _nine_ _tonight_ ,” he says, providing Davis with an address before he hangs up.

Connor lets out a breath, body deflating. “You think he’s suspicious?”

“He’d be stupid not to be,” Hank mutters, taking the phone from Davis. “But it doesn’t matter as long as he shows up. If he thinks we haven’t connected him to this yet, he might want to tie off loose ends.”

Davis looks at them frantically. “I don’t actually have to go, right? I’m, I’m not like a good actor, he’s gonna know something’s up right away!”

Hank shares a long look with Connor, letting Davis stew in his fear for a while.

“No. You’re staying right here so you can reflect on your life choices,” Hank finally says, walking to the door to let the uniforms come and collect Davis.

  
  
  
It’s just Hank, Connor, Gavin and Chris at the factory parking lot. There’s more support nearby, keeping their distance so they won’t be seen, a few miles out. They’d taken Davis’s car, parked near the entrance to hopefully reassure Hutton.

“Haven’t worn one of these in ages,” Hank grunts, strapping his ballistic vest closed and feeling vaguely embarrassed. Connor, much to Hank’s annoyance, looks like something out of a high-budget crime procedural, the sturdy vest only making him look stronger and more slender, like the human embodiment of a bloodhound. Hank looks at the way his own vest fits badly over his gut, resembling a St Bernard more.

“What’s so funny?” Connor asks, looking at him curiously, and Hank clears his throat.

“Nothing. Just thinking of Sumo,” he says evasively, and the mention of his dog elicits a smile from Connor. Hank wonders if he would still like to come visit the dog at least. Sumo will be heart-broken if Connor just disappears from their lives. Another thing for Hank to feel guilty about.

Hank’s nearly struck down by the thought that this could be the last time they work together. He can’t bring himself to ask Connor where they stand, but he can’t imagine Connor wanting to work with him anymore, not with the way things are between them right now.

The need to say something, to apologise properly claws its way up his chest, and he has to grit his teeth to keep his mouth shut. This isn’t the time, and neither of them needs the distraction right now. There’ll be time later for Hank to fix this mess. There has to be.

“Alright, we’re scouting in through the back,” Reed says, nodding to Chris.

“Let’s try to do this cleanly,” Hank says, pointedly not looking at Reed. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t scare him off and have to chase him down.”

“I can take him,” Connor says matter-of-factly, and Hank resists the urge to smack him.

“Your habit of running off on your own is going to end up getting you killed one day,” he snaps, not backing down at the dirty look Connor shoots him.

“You two done bickering?” Reed sneers, tucking his gun into his holster and patting it for good measure. “Cause I’d really rather not be standing here like a bunch of limp-dicked assholes when Hutton arrives so he can take one look and peel off.”

“Just fucking go,” Hank growls, and then they pair off, Reed and Chris disappearing around a corner.

  
It’s pitch dark inside as they make their way through the factory hallways. Most of the doors are locked, and they walk deeper into the guts of the building, looking for a place to hide out of sight in.

“You gonna start sneezing again?” Hank asks at some point, taking in all the dust accumulating on surfaces.

“No,” Connor says defensively, sweeping his flashlight through a corridor. Hank allows himself a smile in the dimly lit hallway.

The tension between them grates on Hank, so thick you could cut it with a knife. He feels it pulling at his shoulders, wrapping around his chest like a rubber band, oppressive and unforgiving.

They enter the main production hall, full of gutted, rusty machines and coolant tanks. They settle into a corner with a view of the door, crouching behind thick industrial pipes. Hank radios Reed, who’s guarding the back entrance with Chris, and turning off their flashlights they wait in the dark.

Hank’s vividly aware of Connor next to him, his windbreaker rustling every time he shifts, his shoes scuffing against the dirty floor. The soft sighs he lets out every now and then, signalling his boredom or frustration. Hank tries to imagine what would happen if he reached out now, if he touched Connor in the safety of the darkness.

“Hank-” Connor says, but he cuts himself off when the beams from car headlights shine through the windows, throwing long shadows over the machinery.

Hank calls in on Reed again, counting down how long it took for him and Connor to reach the hall.

Minutes drag by, Hank’s pulse picking up.

“Soon,” Connor murmurs, leaning in to get a visual on the door, the press of his palm on Hank’s back heavy even through the kevlar.

The sound of footsteps echo closer form the corridor, and Hank holds his breath when the beam of a flashlight inches into view.

“Davis? You better be here you fuck,” Hutton calls out,  his voice weaker than his words.

Connor twitches next to Hank, and Hank grabs his arm. Not yet.

Hutton walks deeper amongst the machines, and then he stops before taking a cautious step back.

“Go,” Hank whispers, and Connor flicks on his light at the same time as Hank draws out his weapon, pointing it at Hutton.

“Detroit police! Drop the light and put your hands up behind your head,” Hank commands, walking slowly towards Hutton. “Now.”

“Who- How did you-” Hutton asks, voice shaky as he shields his eyes before Connor adjusts the aim of his light. Hank cuts him off with a motion of his gun.

“I said hands behind your head, I don’t have time to monologue to you,” he growls.

Hutton nods, raising his hands slowly, still gripping the metal shaft of his flashlight. Hank’s about to repeat the order to drop it, and then everything goes belly-up in the span of about two seconds.

Hutton swings the light at Hank, not stopping to see whether it hits the target or not as he darts to the side and into the shadows. Hank squeezes off a shot that goes wide as he dodges the flashlight, the heavy weight of it missing him by inches and hitting the floor with a clatter. Hutton lunges behind the bulk of a large pump and disappears, his footsteps echoing in the hall.

“Fucker!” Hank yells, running after him with Connor in tow. Connor is already radioing Reed and Chris a warning in case Hutton tries to escape through the back. Hank turns on his own flashlight and motions for Connor to circle around a large tank while Hank takes the other side.

Hutton is at an disadvantage without his light, stumbling around amongst the heavy machinery, trapped like a rat in a maze.

They sweep the area as fast as they can, but the sharp, strange shadows of the factory equipment are disorienting, their flashlights creating movement where there’s nothing but empty space and darkness. Their steps echo in the cavernous room, making it nearly impossible to distinguish where sounds are coming from.

Hank inches around a tall metal structure, paint flaking off pipes as he brushes against them, and for a moment he loses his visual on Connor.

That’s all it takes. The crack of a gunshot turns Hank’s blood into ice, and he rounds around the bend to see Connor’s flashlight on the ground, illuminating Hutton holding Connor like a shield, a small handgun pressed to Connor’s temple.

There’s a look of pain on Connor’s face, his brow twisted and teeth bared as he holds his hand to his abdomen. Hank’s knees nearly buckle out from under him at the sight.

“Connor, you okay?” He demands, gun pointed towards Hutton - and by proxy, towards Connor.

Connor lets out a pained groan, nodding. “It hit the vest,” he manages to choke out. Taking a bullet to the abdomen with a vest on is what Hank would imagine being hit with a baseball bat would feel like. He hopes Connor’s ribs aren’t broken, but he’d rather take that than have him bleeding from a bullet wound.

Hank takes two steps towards them and then stops as Hutton tightens his arm around Connor’s neck.

“Put the gun down, Detective!” There’s a distinct edge of panic in his voice, and Hank hopes he can use it to his advantage. He needs to get Connor away from Hutton.

“You know I can’t do that,” Hank says calmly, taking a few steps sideways until he’s facing them head-on. Connor’s wide eyes lock with his, and Hank wishes he could reassure him.

“And it’s Lieutenant, by the way. In case we want to be civil.”

He wonders how long until Gavin and Chris arrive. Sweat rolls down his spine when he thinks about what Hutton might do if startled. How trigger-happy is he?

“Why don’t you put the gun away and we’ll talk a little.”

Hutton shakes his head, pushing the barrel of his gun against Connor’s skull. Hank’s heart sinks to his stomach.

“You know there’s no way you’re gonna walk out of here like that,” Hank says, voice low, trying to sound calming instead of threatening, even if all he wants to do is rip Hutton into pieces.

“If I don’t, I’m taking him down with me!” Hutton takes a step back, dragging Connor with him.

Hank can see the bob of Connor’s throat as he swallows, trying to turn his head to address Hutton.

“We can still help you,” Connor says gently, his voice more calm than the wild look in his eyes would suggest. “Just let me go and you’ll walk out of here alive,” he murmurs, words barely audible to Hank.

Hank sees hesitation flicker across Hutton’s face, but then he seems to steel himself. His finger slides past the trigger guard, brushing the trigger, and Hank’s blood runs cold.

“No!” Hank shouts, opening his palm to show his own finger isn’t on the trigger. “Stop, _stop_ , alright! I’m putting my gun down, just _don’t shoot!_ ” Hank says, voice reedy with desperation as he leans down to drop his gun, kicking it a little farther away. Connor has gone pale, his white hand gripping Hutton’s forearm hard enough to draw the man’s coat into bunches. Sweat gleams on his temple in the lamplight, and his eyes are wide with fear as he stares at Hank.

It’s not unlike the nightmares Hank’s had, except it’s so much worse. All it takes is one bullet and that’s it, game over, no replays. Connor’s life snuffed with just a tiny hole in his skull.

Hutton relaxes a little as soon as the gun is out of Hank’s reach, his finger going to rest along the side of the pistol again, blissfully away from the trigger, and Hank nearly sobs with relief.

“That’s it,” Hank says, trying to keep his voice soothing and strong. “Don’t do anything you can’t take back.”

“A bit late for that, don’t you think,” Hutton says, giving a hysterical laugh. Hank can tell he’s getting tired of restraining Connor. Good. Let him wear himself out.

“So why did you do it? Would you tell me?” Hank coaxes, keeping his eyes away from Connor’s scared face. He can’t look at him now, he needs to stay focused and no let Hutton see what a weak link Hank is. “I bet you’d like someone to know what they did to you.”

He’s reaching, but Hank’s dealt with enough killers to know which ones are simply cold-blooded and which ones are desperate to justify their actions. Hutton has none of the nerves of someone who kills for fun. If you ask Hank, as far as motivations go, that leaves love, revenge, or money.

“I had to. They knew - I mean they all came to the games,” Hutton says, moving the gun unsteadily, Hank’s pulse skyrocketing again. “They said if I didn’t cut them into the profits, they’d report me.” Hutton lets out a sniffle, correcting his hold on Connor again. The muzzle of the gun nudges against Connor’s hairline, and Connor draws in a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes closed.

Hank sees movement in the shadows, his heart contracting with terror when he recognises Gavin in the darkness, flashlight turned off. He wants to scream at him to back off, to stay quiet and stay put, but he can’t risk scaring Hutton. All he dares to do is make a slight gesture with his left hand, a twitch of his palm, and for a moment he thinks this is it, Hutton’s going to freak and blow Connor’s brains out and-

Gavin stops, lowering his gun a little bit, eyes trained on Hank. He motions to his wristwatch mutely, but Hank understands - backup isn’t far.

Hank doesn’t want to know what will happen when Hutton hears the building being breached.

Hutton is oblivious. “They were trying to blackmail me,” he whines, like he’s the one who’s been wronged here. “I had to do it, it’s.. It’s self-defence, isn’t it?” He asks, eyes pleading on Hank, and Hank can only nod.

“You had to protect yourself, right?”

Hutton nods frantically, letting out a soft, relieved sob. “Yeah! They would’ve ruined my life, so I had to… I _had_ to.” He begins to cry, and that makes Hank nervous. He wants Hutton calm now. Calm and tired and willing to give in.

Hank’s never been a good negotiator, never had the patience for it, but he has no other choice but to try. He sees Gavin slowly move closer, waiting for a signal.

Hank makes the mistake of glancing at Connor. The pleading look on his face nearly sends Hank to his knees. There’s wetness on his cheeks, and Hank wants to comfort him, wants to wrap him up and never let him out of his sight again. He remembers the terrifying first time he’d stared down the barrel of a gun, absolutely convinced that he was about to die. It’s a horror that grips you in a tight hold and doesn’t let go for hours.

Connor’s lips move silently, and the plea that Hank can read on them sets an ache under his ribs, burning with every breath he draws.

“Connor’s done nothing to you,” Hank says softly. “He’s a good kid. He’s not even 30 yet, can you believe that?” He forces out a laugh, and Hutton’s sobs get heavier.

“Killing Connor wouldn’t be self-defence, you know that. He’s not like Franks was. Or even Tom Waters, or Robert.” Hank takes a step forward, just to see what happens. Hutton doesn’t react, sniffling and swaying a little with Connor.

“He’s just a kid, look at him,” Hank croons, gentle, gentle, and Hutton cries, eyes screwed shut, huge gasping sobs wracking his body. Connor closes his eyes, something on his face going lax, and Hank would give anything to know what he’s thinking of. If he’s given up, accepted the inevitable, or if he still trusts Hank.

Hank reaches out to Hutton slowly, locking his eyes with Gavin over Hutton’s shoulder.

“Just give me the gun,” Hank beckons, voice as kind as he can manage.

“Hank,” Connor says, tone warning and scared, but Hank ignores him, eyes glued on Hutton.

Hutton lifts the gun, and just for a second the barrel points up towards the ceiling instead of at Connor’s head, and Reed strikes, quick as a snake as he grabs Hutton’s wrist and brings the butt of his own pistol down on the back of his head.

Hutton crumples down onto cold concrete with a whimper, and Connor wrenches free, taking two staggering steps forwards until Hank’s there to grab him, pulling him into a bruising embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Yakichou did a gorgeous illustration for the final scenes](https://twitter.com/Yakichou1/status/1061283345047277569) go give them praise for it!
> 
>  
> 
> See me on Tumblr  
> on my DBH blog @roomfullofcunts  
> or my main @synekdokee.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank listens to the ticks of his wrist watch on the night-stand, measuring the seconds to the soft rhythm of Connor’s breathing. He expects Connor to stand up and walk away, and he closes his eyes, knowing he can’t bear to watch it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless RedxLuna for dealing with my scheduling issues and powering through to beta this on a short notice. 
> 
> [Yakichou did a gorgeous illustration for the previous chapter](https://twitter.com/Yakichou1/status/1061283345047277569) go give them praise for it!

Hank sits on the trunk of a patrol car hunkered into his coat, watching Connor get checked out by a medic. Reed stands next to him, arms folded across his chest. His face is drawn up tight, expression unreadable to Hank.

Chris is helping another officer place Hutton in custody, and he turns to give them a slight wave before they drive off to take him to the precinct. Hank sighs deep from his chest, sliding off the car.

Gavin watches the car disappear into the darkness. He snorts, shaking his head.

“What a fucking dipshit. ‘ _Gosh, it would be awful if my gambling addiction was exposed, guess I'll just have to murder everyone_ ,’” he says, doing an unflattering imitation of Hutton’s reedy voice. Hank laughs despite himself, the sound startled out of him by the sudden break in the lingering tension.

“Look after the kid, I’m going to the station,” Reed says, giving Hank an uncomfortable look. “Fowler said to tell you take a few days off. Him especially,” he adds, jerking his head towards where Connor is gingerly buttoning his shirt back up.

Hank nods, hesitating for a moment. He and Reed have their problems, the kind that have cleaved an unbreachable rift between them, but perhaps something has shifted tonight.

“Thanks,” Hank says, stuffing his hands in his pocket. “I think Connor might owe you his life.”

Gavin gives him a grin that’s not entirely friendly. “I’ll find some way to hold it over his head,” he says, but his tone isn’t quite as malicious as it would’ve been a few months ago. “I bet you’ve got a reward coming too.”

Hank tenses, pulling himself straight. “Reed-”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m staying out of it. See you around,” Reed says, walking away before either of them has the chance to escalate things.

Hank looks over to Connor and he freezes when he sees Connor watching him. He looks calm now, but there’s something vulnerable about his posture, the way he stands with his feet planted wide apart, palms curled into fists at his side.

Hank goes to him, brushing his hand down Connor’s arm.

“They clear you?” He asks, looking down into Connor’s brown eyes. There’s still something wild in them, his stare a little too wide, but he nods, lips pursed.

“I’m okay,” he says softly, voice a little tight. “Just a bruise. I suspect it’ll be worse tomorrow.” He touches his hand to his abdomen, brushing the cotton of his shirt. Hank wants to cover it with his own, in fact he’d like to pull Connor to him again and wrap him into another hug, but he manages to restrain himself.

“Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

Someone offers to switch cars with them so Hank doesn’t have to worry about the logistics of returning Davis’s car. He cranks up the heating and turns the radio on low to give Connor something to listen to while they drive.

Stuck alone together he’s uncomfortably reminded of how he and Connor had left things earlier today. There are things even adrenaline can’t fix. But there are more pressing matters now.

He clears his throat, and Connor jumps, startled back from wherever his mind had wandered off to. “Fowler will assign you a therapist,” Hank says awkwardly, and Connor frowns,

“I’m fine,” he says, a hint of complaint in his voice. “I don’t need a shrink.”

Hank’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Yeah, you do. First time having a gun pointed at you isn’t anything to take lightly,” he says, voice gentle but firm. “And anyway you don’t have a choice. It’s mandatory.”

Connor huffs, slumping deeper into his seat. He gives Hank a sideways look.

“Have you ever… Has anyone…” He can’t seem to be able to say it, and Hank takes pity on him.

“Threatened to blow my brains out?” He says, almost regretting the harsh phrasing when Connor tenses up next to him. But Connor needs to accept it, not find euphemisms to underplay things with.

“Yeah, a few times,” he shrugs. “Been at this way longer than you,” he says with a smile.

“Does it get… easier?” Connor asks softly, still not quite looking at Hank.

Hank sighs, trying to think of the right words that won’t discourage Connor further. “A little. Every situation is different. Some are scarier than others. The therapy helps, really.” He lets out a huff that could almost pass for a laugh. “I might need some after this too. I think I just aged ten years,” he mutters.

Connor lets out a soft chuckle, and Hank’s mood lightens a little.

“Thank you for what you did,” Connor murmurs, and his hand makes an aborted move towards Hank before he yanks it back. “Could I-” he starts, and then falls silent for a moment. Hank doesn’t rush him.

“I don’t really think I can be alone right now,” he finally says, voice so small Hank almost doesn’t catch it.

He flicks on his turning signal and changes lanes to a familiar route. Connor stays quiet but relaxes in his seat, turning to stare out of the passenger window at the dark, frosty landscape rushing past.

 

Hank can hear Sumo’s whining through the door as he unlocks it. He has to shoo the big lug away down the hall so he and Connor can shut the door behind them, but the moment it’s closed Sumo throws himself at Hank, making satisfied huffs while rubbing himself against Hank’s legs.

Once Sumo’s assured that his owner is still himself, he turns his attention to Connor, eager for more affection. Hank smiles as Connor lowers himself to his knees, Sumo rubbing his head against his chest, panting heavily.

“Hey boy,” Connor coos, petting Sumo’s head and scratching behind his ears. A soft smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, pushing away some of the weariness on his face.

Connor sinks his hands into the thick fur on either side of Sumo’s neck, slowly pushing them down along his sides until he’s hugging the dog, Sumo’s large head resting on Connor’s shoulder. Hank watches Connor turn his face into Sumo’s coat, and then something seems to give, like a dam breaking. Connor’s fingers curl tight into the warm hair, and his shoulders begin to shake, hitching breaths muffled into the fur.

Hank swallows thickly, lowering himself down next to Connor, draping one arm around the breadth of his shoulders.

“It’s okay. Let it out,” he murmurs, rubbing circles into the plane of Connor’s back, and slowly the tension in Connor uncoils and he starts to sob, drawing deep, shuddering gasps that threaten to crack Hank’s heart in two. “You did good, Connor,” Hank croons, repeating it over and over again. “You did good.”

Sumo begins to whine, a stressed sound at not understanding what’s happening, and starts to shift nervously. Gently Hank pries Connor’s hands from the soft fur and lets his dog free. He tugs Connor to his chest, Connor resisting weakly before giving in, pressing his face against Hank’s shoulder and sinking against him. Sumo lies down in front of them, his large brown eyes flicking worriedly from Hank to Connor, his tail giving a few hopeful wags.

They kneel there in the dark, Hank cradling the back of Connor’s head while Connor cries himself exhausted. The house is quiet except for Connor’s ragged breathing and Sumo’s soft, concerned whimpers.

Hank loses track of time. His knees are starting to ache and his back seize up, but nothing matters except the reassuring heaves of Connor’s chest against his, his soft hair tangled between Hank’s fingers, his breath puffing wet and warm against the skin of Hank’s neck. So intoxicatingly alive, and Hank wants to stay like this forever.

Eventually Connor’s breathing evens out, and Hank allows him to pull himself away.

“Sorry,” Connor sniffles, his head turned away as he wipes his cheeks roughly, tension building again. Hank sighs, curling his palm around the back of Connor’s neck to press a kiss to the top of his disheveled hair.

“Don’t apologise, kid,” he murmurs. “Sometimes a good purge is what you need.”

Connor nods, his hair tickling Hank’s nose, and then he looks up. His face is blotchy, his eyes wet and a little swollen, but the wild look in them is gone now.

“Don’t call me that,” he says, meeting Hank’s gaze unwaveringly. “Don’t call me kid.”

Hank nods, pushing the stubborn stray strands away from Connor’s brow. “You get why I did it, right?” He asks. Connor nods.

“I know. I’m grateful. You… that was good thinking,” he says, clearing his throat around the roughness left by the crying. He pushes himself up and offers Hank his hand.

Hank’s knees crack when he stands up, his head a little woozy for a moment, and he grabs Connor’s shoulder to steady himself.

There’s no excuse for their proximity now, no pretense of physical comfort to hide behind. Slowly Connor raises a hand, unshaking and sure, to rest on the swell of Hank’s chest, and Hank’s heart throbs an extra beat.

“Connor,” he says, his voice rumbling from somewhere deep in him.

Connor’s head is bowed, his neck and the constellation of freckles just under his collar exposed to Hank’s gaze.

”You saved me,” Connor whispers, pressing his palm firmer against Hank’s chest. He tilts his head up, and the exposed, open look on his face takes Hank’s breath away, everything laid bare for Hank’s benefit. Connor’s pink lips are parted just slightly, and when he blinks, slow and enticing, his lashes fan against his flushed cheeks.

Hank doesn’t remember moving, but his hand has found its way to Connor’s waist, fingers gripping the pale blue fabric. He brings his other hand to cup Connor’s jaw, his thumb rubbing across the curve of his cheekbone. Connor leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed, and finally Hank gives in. He leans in to close the narrow space between them and presses his mouth to Connor’s, soft and chaste.

Connor draws in a hitched breath, and when he releases it it fans across Hank’s lips tenderly. Hank presses their foreheads together, continuing to caress Connor’s cheek.

“Hank-” Connor says, his voice closer to a whimper than anything else, and Hank reels himself back reluctantly.

“Not now,” he says, stepping away, holding Connor by his shoulders. The look on Connor’s face is nothing short of betrayed, his mouth now a line of hurt. Hank rushes to explain.

“Not… Not like this. You need some rest - hell, we both do. And there’s… I think we should talk about things before we hurry into anything,” he says, and Connor takes a step back, letting out a frustrated sound.

“I don’t need to be coddled,” he says, loud enough after the hushed silence to startle Sumo. “Why do you insist on making everything so fucking complicated?” He demands, and Hank can’t quite stifle the laugh. He brushes his knuckles across Connor’s cheek, pleased when Connor doesn’t recoil. More bark than bite then.

“Well, whatever you might need, I know my head’s still spinning from what happened. I don’t think we should be rushing into anything we might regret later,” Hank says firmly, not letting the wounded look on Connor’s face deter him.

Finally Connor gives in, turning to walk towards the kitchen and flicking on the lights.

“You’re-” he huffs, pausing to go through cabinets until he finds the clean glasses and pours himself water.

“Go on,” Hank says, amused as he leans against the wall. Whatever Connor has to throw at him it can’t be worse than watching him nearly get killed.

“Infuriating,” Connor finishes. The choice of wording makes Hank chuckle, and Connor’s frustration deflates a little too.

“That’s one way to put it,” Hank smiles, and then he heads to his bedroom to find the extra bedding again. He digs around in the boxes buried in the back of his closet and finds an old pair of sweats to go with one of his countless tee-shirts. They won’t fit well on Connor, but it’s better than the more recent clothes Hank has to offer, the ones that fit snug around his own broad midsection.

Connor’s petting Sumo again when Hank returns, the dog’s tail thumping happily against the floor.

“I’d offer to take the sofa, but I suspect you’d fight me all the way,” Hank sighs, setting the bundle of bedding down. Connor shoots him a grin over his shoulder.

“What makes you think I won’t anyway?”

“Connor…”

Connor stands up, his grin falling away. “Fine. Christ,” he says, taking the clothes and marching into the bathroom. The door slams shut behind him.

Hank shares a look with Sumo before he sets to making Connor’s bed. He’d feel guilty about not forcing the bed issue, but he’s slept enough nights on his sofa to know it’s more than adequately comfortable.

Eventually Connor shuffles out of the bathroom, and Hank has to stop himself from reaching out for him. Connor in Hank’s over-sized clothes looks oddly vulnerable, younger than his years, and, if Hank’s honest with himself, stupidly cute.

“Thanks,” Connor says quietly, picking at the fabric of the pants. Hank shrugs awkwardly, and the silence stretches until it’s palpable between them.

Hank has to pass Connor on his way to the bedroom, and he pauses, letting his hand curl around Connor’s biceps.

“Let me know if you need anything. Try to get some sleep,” he says, trying to sound reassuring. Connor nods, even though his expression is still asking Hank for something he can’t give him now. Eventually he sighs and moves away, getting under the covers on the sofa.

Hank lets out a low whistle and Sumo scrambles to his feet. Hank points towards Connor, and Sumo, eager to obey, climbs onto the sofa and drapes himself over Connor’s legs, his head coming to rest in his lap. Connor lets out a soft laugh, stroking his fingers over the dome of Sumo’s head.

“In case you have nightmares,” Hank murmurs, smiling. Sumo will take good care of Connor if Hank can’t do it himself. He turns towards the bedroom, head suddenly heavy with exhaustion.

“Hank?” Connor calls out from the darkness, and Hank pauses at the door.

“Thank you. For… everything.”

Hank lets out a breath through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. “Don’t mention it,” he says, and if his voice sounds a little ragged, neither of them mentions it.

 

 

He wakes up to the sensation of the mattress dipping behind him.

It’s still late, and the moon floods the room with an eerie silver glow, and it takes him a moment to realise he’s not dreaming. He turns his head to look over his shoulder at Connor, perched on the edge of his bed, pale and still in the moonlight. He looks like a ghost sent to haunt Hank’s dreams.

“Connor?” Hank murmurs, voice gravelly with sleep.

In the darkness he hadn’t realised Connor’s eyes were closed until he sees the flutter of his lashes.

“Nightmares?” He asks, and Connor shakes his head.

“No. Just wanted to…” He trails off, tipping his head back, and the moonlight cuts a sliver across his throat.

“I ran away from home.”

Hank blinks away the last remnants of the sleep-induced cobwebs in his head and props himself up on his elbows.

“What?”

Connor stares at the ceiling, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “No more secrets, right?”

Hank draws in a slow, deep breath. “Okay.”

Connor turns to him, smiling lopsidedly. “I ran away when I was 17. I was living with my uncle and his wife, and I couldn’t… They didn’t-” he pauses, tracking patterns on the sheets with a finger. “I wasn’t abused or anything. We just weren’t compatible, I suppose.”

“There’s no record,” Hank says slowly. Connor tilts his head, and Hank sighs. “They didn’t even report you missing. Jesus Christ.”

“Probably for the best,” Connor says, pulling his legs up onto the bed. He’s shed the sweat pants somewhere, wearing only Hank’s shirt and his boxers, his long, pale legs folded just out of Hank’s reach.

They sit in silence for a moment, watching each other. Finally Hank lowers himself back down, his turn to count the cracks in the ceiling.

“I have a habit of playing Russian Roulette,” he admits, voice tight in his throat. He doesn’t look at Connor, instead talking to a water-stain in a corner.

“Not as often, of late, as I used to. But you should know. You’re not the only one with baggage, and I’d bet my life mine is more unwieldy.”

Hank listens to the ticks of his wrist watch on the night-stand, measuring the seconds to the soft rhythm of Connor’s breathing. He expects Connor to stand up and walk away, and he closes his eyes, knowing he can’t bear to watch it.

The bed shifts, a pressure next to Hank’s hips, and then on the other side of his body, and he jolts his head up to see Connor moving to loom over him on his hands and knees.

“Anything else?” Connor asks, slowly lowering his hips down, straddling Hank’s stomach. Hank can only gape, his hands going to Connor’s thighs, and then jerking back as though seared by the contact. He has to be dreaming.

“I can’t promise I won’t make you miserable,” Hank whispers, his throat suddenly tight, his chest aching with the knowledge that he isn’t what Connor deserves.

Connor watches him for a moment, his dark eyes piercing him in a way that makes Hank want to shield himself. Then Connor takes his hands and places them back on his thighs, covering them with his own.

“I don’t remember you being this timid,” he muses, and Hank’s heart constricts.

“I’m serious. I’m not- Connor, a lot has changed in ten years.” He wishes he still had the cockiness of his younger self, but he’s tired and worn thin and ragged.

“I know,” Connor says, leaning down, pressing one palm to brace himself against Hank’s chest. “So we’ll just do a little restoration,” he adds, and kisses Hank.

It’s not like the chaste kiss in the hallway. Connor parts his lips, slotting his mouth against Hanks, and Hank can’t help but gasp into it. Connor tastes of toothpaste and saliva, of nothing familiar and still it fulfills a yearning in Hank. His hands slide to grip Connor’s hips, and when he draws one knee up it tilts Connor forward, drawing a startled huff of a laugh from him.

After that they settle together, chest to chest, Connor’s clever tongue teasing at Hank’s, and Hank pays him back with the press of his teeth against a plump bottom lip. Connor shudders against him, his hands fisted in Hank’s shirt, and then breaks into a moan when Hank brings one hand to grip his neck, the other sliding down to palm the firm swell of Connor’s ass.

“There you are,” Connor murmurs, and Hank grunts, pressing Connor firmly against him.

Hank lets himself get lost in the kisses, his hands wandering along the dips and curves of Connor’s body, rucking up his too-big shirt to touch soft skin and hard muscle. Arousal throbs through him, a sensation he’s missed for too long, ignited by the warmth of another body against his, by Connor’s breath warm against his lips, his hands trying to find purchase everywhere, sliding on Hank’s shirt.

“Fuck, get this-” Connor grunts, frustrated, pulling away and tugging impatiently at the fabric. Hank chuckles, arching his back a little to help Connor pull the shirt off.

He tries not to think of what expectations Connor might have, tries not to think of the disappointment of the grey hair covering his undefined chest, the barrel of his stomach.

“I want to see,” Connor says impatiently, and reaches to turn on the bedside lamp before Hank has the chance to stop him.

Connor sits, staring down at him, and Hank holds his breath, dread sticking in his throat. Slowly Connor slides his hands from Hank’s clavicles to his pecs, brushing past his pebbled nipples, down to his belly framed by the vee of Connor’s own thighs.

“Fuck,” Connor breathes, canting his hips to press his erection against Hank’s abdomen. “You’re so big,” he sighs, reverent, and Hank’s cock twitches in his boxers.

“Yeah?” He asks, voice a little rough around the edges. “You like that, huh?” He grips Connor’s hips and shifts him back a little, straightening his legs so Connor’s ass is positioned right over his-

“Oh, Hank, fuck!” Connor groans, rolling his hips, his palms pressing into Hank’s stomach. “I remember _that_ ,” he laughs, and then he scoots down to sit on Hank’s thighs, tugging the elastic of his boxers down until Hank’s half-hard cock is exposed, thick and hot against his thigh.

Connor stares, and then licks his lips. “You know, I was sure I exaggerated it in my memories,” he says, voice far too casual for the situation at hand.

Hank chuckles, taking Connor’s wrist in one hand and guiding it to his crotch. “And it’s only halfway there,” he says, letting go and folding his arms under his head, acting more self-assured than he feels.

Connor takes him in hand, and Hank has to bite his lip to stifle the embarrassing groan threatening to well from his chest. Connor’s fingers are long and clever, curling around his shaft and stroking slowly, thumb rubbing at the swelling flesh rhythmically.

The look on Connor’s face is as addictive as the sight of him tugging at Hank’s cock. His mouth is open, tongue wet and red darting out to lick at his lips, eyes fixed on Hank’s erection sliding through his fist, watching it swell to full hardness.

“I want to ride you,” Connor admits, voice low and rough. He lets go of Hank to push his own boxers down and off, one leg at a time, and Hank’s brain shorts out.

“I don’t have-” he starts, flushing with embarrassment. He hasn’t been with anyone in a long time, he’s hardly prepared for this.

Connor pauses, sitting astride Hank with his hands flat on his thighs.

“I’m clean,” he eventually says, tone hesitant as he meets Hank’s eyes coyly. Hank bucks his hips, a sound that could only be called a whimper escaping his mouth.

“I’m- Yeah, I. Uh-” he stutters, staring at Connor with wide eyes. “Not exactly been the most eligible bachelor lately,” he finally manages to say, fingernails digging half moons into his palms.

Something on Connor’s face softens, his eyes flickering over Hank’s body before he leans down to kiss him hard, hands tangling in Hank’s hair. Hank wraps his arms around Connor’s slim body, clutching him close like he’s wanted to for so long, inhaling in the scent of him.

“I want you, god I want you,” Connor moans into his mouth, rutting his hips into Hank’s stomach. “It’s been driving me crazy, you have no idea,” he says, his voice teetering on the edge of a whine, and it sends a jolt of arousal coursing through Hank.

“You can take as much as you want,” Hank growls, grabbing Connor’s hair and tugging firmly. This feels good, a role he hasn’t worn in a long time, but it still fits. He can’t be the man he was ten years ago, but some of the old him seeps through, and he wants to give all of it to Connor.

He kisses the curve of Connor’s shoulder, tongue pressed against a cluster of freckles, nose brushing against the shell of Connor’s ear.

“I thought you wanted to ride me?” He murmurs, his voice a low rumble, and he hears Connor’s breath catch before he pushes himself up, arms visibly trembling as he sits back.

“Please tell me you have lube, what kind of a man-” he rattles, and Hank laughs and points at his bedside table. It sends Connor scrambling, nearly pulling the drawer out completely before grabbing the slick. The container is pathetically full, speaking volumes of Hank’s drunkard’s libido - at least until Connor had entered the picture again. He tries not to think about it, the mess of a man he’s been, and instead concentrates on the shape of Connor on his bed, still kneeling by the pillows as he fumbles with the cap.

Hank lens over and grabs Connor’s hips from behind, dragging him over and down on the bed. He ignores the startled yelp, instead shouldering between Connor’s thighs. He puts his hands on Connor’s ass cheeks, and for a moment everything goes very still.

“Connor?” Hank says, trailing his gaze up Connor’s spine to the tight line of his shoulders.

“Uh-huh.”

Hank grins, nudging his nose gently between Connor’s cheeks. “Okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Connor stutters, dipping his head down, and that’s all the reassurance Hank needs.

He parts Connor’s buttocks, exposing him completely, and there’s a soft hum from Connor. He lets his thumb press against Connor’s tight hole, dragging over it a few times until he feels a tremble in Connor’s back.

“Hank, come o- oh!” Connor shouts as Hank buries his face in his crack, tongue pressed against his opening and pushing in, his beard scraping against soft skin. Hank’s got his mind set on making Connor’s blush at both ends, and he’s not stopping until his mission is complete.

It’s been a while since he’s eaten anyone out, but turns out it’s a bit like riding a bicycle. He presses his lips to Connor’s hole, teasing and licking until Connor is humping his hips into the mattress and against Hank’s face, groaning breathily. He pulls back a little to pull Connor apart with his thumb, giving him an appraising look.

“You wanna come like this?” He asks, sliding his hand under Connor’s hip, and Connor lets out a frustrated sound.

“I don’t _know_ ,” he whines, rocking back into Hank’s grip.

Hank grunts and nudges Connor’s ass up. “Come on, baby, let off some steam and then we can really play.”

He sees Connor freeze, and only then do his words register with him. Connor turns to look at him over the slope of his shoulder, mouth a little slack.

“Did you call me… baby?” He asks slowly, cheeks ruddy. Hank bites his cheek, his hand going to his neck.

“I, uh. Is that okay?” He asks. It had slipped out on its own, a term of endearment he didn’t even stop to think about.

Connor lowers his head down, forehead pressed into the bed, and kneels there quietly for a moment.

“Yeah,” he says finally, tone soft. “Yeah, it’s okay. I can be your baby.”

Hank can hear the grin in his voice, and he laughs, low and relieved, and leans over to drape his body over Connor’s, chest to back, the swell of his stomach pressed against the small of Connor’s lower back.

“Okay, baby,” he murmurs, nuzzling Connor’s ear, and Connor’s whole body quivers.

“Hank… you’re so fucking.. god, you feel so good,” he moans, pressing the curve of his ass against Hank’s cock, and Hank can’t hold back the growl rumbling from his chest. He curls his arm around Connor’s waist, supporting himself with one arm on the bed, and starts stroking Connor’s cock.

“Remember how well you took me back then?” He asks, voice low, hoping it’s not a mistake to bring back something that almost caused such a rift between them. But Connor just shudders, nodding his head as he rides Hank’s grip, sweat slicking the back of his neck. Hank presses a kiss to a bony knob of his spine, humming.

“Gonna make you take it again. Let you ride me, you can feel me all over again, every inch of me,” he growls, and Connor lets out a desperate, shuddering moan.

“Hank…” he breathes, rocking his hips forwards with a stuttered pace that lacks any control or rhythm. “Hank, please, let me-” He cuts himself off, but Hank’s still got some of his wits about him, and he smiles against Connor’s heated skin.

“You can come, baby,” he murmurs, and Connor sobs, going still beneath Hank as he comes with a low, wounded sound that he muffles into his arms, semen filling Hank’s palm.

“That’s it,” Hank croons, helping Connor lower himself flat on the bed to catch his breath. He sits up and wipes his hand on Connor’s shirt, and then rolls Connor over.

“You’re pretty dressed still,” he says, tugging at the hem of the shirt. Connor looks up at him, the most fucked-out expression on his face, and Hank has a sudden, vivid flashback to ten years ago. Connor inhales, and then does what can only described as a _wiggle_ , sliding down the bed so his shirt slides up and bunches around his armpits.

“I don’t remember _you_ being this lazy in bed,” Hank laughs, tugging the shirt over Connor’s head and off him, throwing it into a corner. Connor’s hair is sticking up at the top, and Hank can’t resist the urge to pet it down. The smile Connor gives him is sweet enough to make his heart ache.

It’s Hank’s turn to look and touch. Connor’s lost the coltish thinness he had ten years ago. He’ll never be built and broad, but there’s power and strength in him, all muscle and sinew curving beautifully under soft, pale skin. There’s a mottled bruise forming on his abdomen from being shot at. Hank leans down to press a tender kiss to it, and feels Connor’s fingers stroke through his hair.

“You still got it in you to ride me?” He asks gently, moving up to kiss Connor.

“I can’t believe you’re questioning my libido,” Connor frowns, sitting up and giving Hank a playful nudge. It turns into a caress, Connor’s hand sliding to the bandage on Hank’s side, only a few days old. It feels like a lifetime has passed since he got stabbed.

“Does it still hurt?”

Hank shrugs. “I’ve had worse. Won’t keep me from fuckin’ you if that’s what you mean,” he scoffs, and it earns him a grin from Connor, sly and inviting.

“Just checking,” Connor murmurs, and then he’s straddling Hank, hands on his shoulders pushing him down on the bed, and Hank goes willingly. He lets Connor touch him freely, and Connor seems to enjoy the invitation, hands wandering on Hank’s skin. He tugs at the hair on his chest, rubs the pad of his thumb over a nipple - Hank gasps, and something dirty gleams in Connor’s eyes.

There’s something almost reverent about the way Connor’s hands follow the shape of Hank’s chest to his stomach, and Hank resists the urge to squirm. Finally he has to speak, has to put the words out there.

“You’re not disappointed?” He says, hating how weak he sounds.

Connor shoots him a surprised look, hands pausing their exploration.

“No,” he says, clear and firm. “I’ve been looking at you for months, and I’m here aren’t I?” He sounds a little irritated, and oddly it settles some of Hank’s nervousness.

“I’m not in the same shape I was a decade ago,” he says, giving Connor a self-deprecating smile.

Connor frowns, chewing on his lip. “I know. But you’re- fuck, look, I’ve always had a thing for bigger guys, that’s why I was all over you that night-” he breaks off, flush rising up his neck again.

“And I think you’re-,” he stops again, hesitating, and then seems to decide to just blurt it out. “You’re hot, okay, you’re fucking sexy, and we can talk about what it says about me that this-” he draws his hand from the base of Hank’s throat to his navel - “is just my type, but _you’re not a disappointment to me_ ,” he finishes vehemently.

Hank swallows around the lump in his throat, staring up at Connor with something like wonder.

“Okay. Yeah, okay,” he stammers, and drags Connor down into a kiss, slow and deep, squeezing him close with every ounce of strength he can summon. Connor huffs out a laugh, pulling out of the kiss to drop his head in the crook of Hank’s shoulder.

“Just like that,” he says, and he sounds so goddamn happy that Hank wants to just hold him like this for the rest of the night. Maybe tomorrow too. They’re not expected at work, after all.

Eventually Connor struggles against his embrace, laughing as he finally manages to break Hank’s hold.

“Come on, we can cuddle later,” he grins. “I’m very task-oriented,” he adds, reaching for the lube. “Want to do the honours, or do you want to watch?” he asks casually, and Hank has to reach down to palm his dick to make sure he doesn’t go off immediately.

“Uh. I want to- I’d like to watch.” _Watch you finger yourself_ , he thinks, and how the fuck did he get this lucky?

Connor nods, turning around so he’s facing Hank’s knees, leaning forwards so Hank has a full view of his perfect, pale, firm ass.

Hank hears the cap of the lube click, sees Connor’s shoulder move as he slicks his fingers, and then Connor’s hand is between his legs, two fingers sliding into his own asshole, already a little loose from Hank’s tongue. Hank’s having a hard time breathing suddenly, his chest tight with arousal as he watches Connor stretch himself. The angle must be awkward, but Connor handles it like a champ, his other hand gripping Hank’s shin to steady himself.

“That’s good, fuck, Connor,” Hank mutters, reaching down to caress the swell of Connor’s ass, and Connor’s soft sighs turn into rough little moans.

His wrist brushes against Hank’s stiff dick every now and then, a tease that’d be enough on its own to get Hank’s pulse pounding if the sight of Connor stuffing himself with his fingers wasn’t already doing it. Connor adds a third finger, and soon after a fourth one, greedy and impatient. He hisses, pressing his brow to Hank’s leg, and then his fingers sink deeper, and Hank lets out a thick moan, nails digging into the flesh of Connor’s buttock.

“O- okay, fuck, I want-” Connor pants, pulling his hand away to Hank’s great disappointment, though the sight of Connor’s hole red and open and slick is a good consolation prize.

Except then Connor’s turning around again, taking Hank in his hand and giving him a few strokes to slick him up, and Hank remembers the main prize again.

“Come here,” he grunts, gripping Connor’s hips and tugging him up and forwards until he’s braced right over Hank’s cock. “Don’t rush it,” he says, more gentle than he feels in this moment. Connor nods and places one palm flat on Hank’s sternum, using the other to guide Hank as he lowers himself down.

“Oh,” Connor sighs, and Hank bites his tongue when he feels the tip of his cock press against Connor’s slick hole and slowly, slowly start to sink in.

“Fucking hell, Connor, you-” Hank groans, resisting the burning need to just pull Connor down until he’s balls deep in him, reminding himself to let Connor control the pace.

It’s torture, and it’s the best thing Hank has felt in years, the slow, tight slide of Connor’s ass around his cock. His fingers are digging into Connor’s hips, hard enough to bruise, but he can’t make himself loosen his hold. Connor’s mouth is open, pink tongue pressed against his lower lip, lashes lowered as he impales himself. Finally Hank’s all the way in, and Connor lets out a low, shuddering groan, his head rolling back to expose the column of his neck.

“Fuck, oh, god,” he moans, reaching down to press heel of his hand against his own cock. His chest is rising and falling in a rapid rhythm as he adjusts. “You’re fucking _huge_ ,” Connor says, voice absolutely wrecked, and Hank’s cock twitches.

“Come on, ride me, fuck, Connor, do it baby,” Hank coaxes, and slowly Connor’s eyes blink open, dark with lust. He bites his bottom lip and nods, slowly lifting himself and then sinking down again, and Hank knows he’s not gonna last long.

They set up an uneven rhythm, Connor fucking himself on Hank’s cock, his own pretty cock bobbing against his belly, slapping against his skin wetly and leaving traces of precome. Hank can’t help but stare, open and unashamed, because Connor riding him is the most gorgeous thing he’s seen in his life. His whole body is flushed an attractive shade of red, every muscle coiled tight, his thighs trembling as he lifts himself up. His lips are bitten red and swollen, his mouth parted around moans and whines that spill out every time Hank’s cock splits him open, sweat beading on his temple. His eyes are closed, and Hank wants desperately to see him.

He cups Connor’s cheek and growls, “Look at me, baby.”

Connor groans, opening his eyes and staring at Hank with glassy eyes. “Hank,” he whines, and how can Hank say no to him?

He adjusts his grip on Connor’s hips and thrusts his hips up as he pulls Connor down, and Connor _wails_ , his hands scrabbling on Hank’s chest as he can only hold on from then on. Hank fucks into him with every ounce of strength in him, and when Connor manages to get a hand on his dick Hank nearly comes immediately.

“Oh God, oh my God, Hank, Hank-” Connor chants, voice tight and a little high-pitched and hitching with every thrust of Hank’s cock into him. “I’m gonna come, fuck,” he moans, stroking himself faster, and Hank grips his wrist hard enough to still him.

“Not yet,” he grits out, and Connor’s eyes go wide, his throat bobbing as he swallows and nods.

Hank drags him down against him and keeps bucking his hips, rutting into Connor’s tight, slick hole until he comes with a low, drawn out sound, his body shaking, balls tight as he empties himself inside Connor. Connor moans softly, panting into his ear while Hank strokes his back soothingly.

He rolls them over, cock slipping out of Connor’s used hole, and before Connor has time to react he slides down his lithe body and sinks his mouth over his straining cock. Connor lets out a yell, arching up, and when Hank shoves two fingers inside him, feeling how loose and sloppy from Hank’s come he is, Connor heaves out a sob and digs his nails into Hank’s shoulder.

“Please, please, Hank,” Connor cries, and Hank pulls off long enough to bark out a command.

“Come,” he orders, short and harsh, and it has the expected result. His lips are barely around the tip of Connor’s cock when he comes with a hoarse scream, clenching around Hank’s fingers while his body shakes apart.

Hank swallows, and pets Connor’s belly to coax him through the aftershocks, pressing kisses to his abdomen and the crease of his thigh.

“Good?” He hums, and Connor nods, his eyes hidden by an arm he’s thrown over his face.

“Jesus Christ, that was…” He breathes, finally looking down at Hank. He looks a little out of it, and Hank wipes his mouth and moves up to kiss him.

“Glad to know I’ve still got it in me,” Hank laughs, and Connor chuckles, playing with the tangled, sweat-damp strands of Hank’s hair.

“That was really good,” he hums, stretching his body against Hank’s. “I’m gonna feel that tomorrow.” He sounds pleased about it, and Hank’s spent dick throbs uselessly at the thought of having fucked Connor sore.

“Yeah, I don’t think my damn back is gonna thank me either,” he grunts, rolling off Connor and sprawling on the bed. It’s snowing outside now, but Hank’s still hot enough that he kicks the covers off.

Connor turns off the bedside lamp and then settles against him, head on Hank’s shoulder, and Hank can’t resist pressing a kiss to the top of his now wild hair. Connor smells good, of sweat and sex and Hank, and Hank curls his arm around his waist.

“We should still talk about this,” Hank murmurs, already feeling exhausted. “I’m not the easiest guy to be around even at my best, and…” he sighs, staring up at the dark ceiling. “I’m almost 25 years older than you. There’s going to be backlash. And certain… compatibility issues,” he says frankly, grateful that he’s not facing Connor now.

Connor lets out a breath, hot and damp against Hank’s chest. “Can this wait until morning?” He asks wearily, carding his fingers through the wiry hairs on Hank’s belly.

Hank nods, and he feels Connor’s lashes flutter against his skin. He waits until he hears Connor’s breathing even out, feels him go loose in Hank’s arms, and only then he allows himself to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for this chapter [go look at another incredible piece by Yakichou!!](https://twitter.com/Yakichou1/status/1064605853691592704)
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
> [Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go back to work, Jeffrey easing them into it with simple cases. Neither of them shares what they talk about in therapy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. I want to thank every single reader, anyone who left kudos or comments or reached out to me elsewhere, or drew art for me. This is my first work that's more than just smut or a one-shot. I've never finished a WIP in my life, not to mention written something that's 37k + prequel. I have no words for how integral your support has been to me finishing this. Thank you. 
> 
> I also have to thank my beta, @RedxLuna, for being so damn gracious about my sporadic schedule, and for all the encouraging comments. 
> 
> Hang in there, some links:  
> I wrote [an alternate timeline ficlet on Tumblr](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/post/179771756470/set-the-brake-too-late) of what might've gone down if Connor had gone to see Hank shortly after their night together. 
> 
> [Yakichou drew a touching piece for the previous chapter,](https://twitter.com/Yakichou1/status/1064605853691592704) please go see it. 
> 
> [Drew a gorgeous illustration for a scene from the previous chapter as well](http://humblebeex2.tumblr.com/post/180347440269/you-saved-me-hank-my-contribution-to-the), it'll make you feel warm and fuzzy.
> 
> Mao on Twitter drew two scenes from the same chapter, one of [Connor on Hank's bed](https://mobile.twitter.com/chococo_mao/status/1064914957060329477), one of [Connor fingering himself](https://mobile.twitter.com/chococo_mao/status/1064971373041209345) for Hank.
> 
>  
> 
> Last but not least, this whole thing was inspired by a song by Neko Case, and you should [give it a listen here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=67SYzn4lmt8)
> 
> That's it then. End of the ride ;) Until I write the side-chapter from Connor's POV that is!  
> Hope you enjoy it, and thank you again.

Hank wakes up alone.

There’s a split second of panic when he thinks Connor must’ve changed his mind and up-and-left, but then rational thought takes over. They can both be cowards, but he knows Connor wouldn’t do that, not now.

Connor must’ve dragged the covers up at some point, and Hank takes a moment to just lie there in the silence, thinking fondly of last night. His back aches, and he feels a little disgusting from dried sweat and semen and lube staining his skin, but he’s also relaxed in a way he hasn’t been in god knows how long. He feels it deep in his bones and his sore muscles and his kiss-bitten lips. He feels good, and he wishes he had Connor here now so he could pull him into an embrace and maybe grope him a little bit.

Eventually he climbs out of bed and drags his tired body into the bathroom. He notices Sumo and the leash are absent too, which explains where Connor’s gone to. Maybe he needs time to think. It makes Hank a little nervous, but he’d rather they enter this with clear heads and eyes open.

The tub is still wet, and he’s surprised he didn’t wake up to Connor showering. A testament to how out of it he was. The hot water feels like balm on his lower back, and he takes his sweet time cleaning himself.

He trims his beard, which has started to climb a little too high on his cheeks. He stares at himself in the mirror, trying on a smile, feeling like a fucking idiot grinning at his reflection. He tries to see what Connor might see, but all there is to him is a bunch of grey hair and wrinkles and sallow skin. He pushes himself away from the sink with a sigh, his good mood evaporated.

He’s fully dressed in clean jeans and a blue t-shirt that a vain part of him hopes will flatter him when he hears the door open.

Sumo barrels in dragging his loose leash, tail wagging a mile a minute as Hank greets him with some proper ear scratches.

“Hey,” he hears, and looks up to see Connor covered in melting snowflakes, still wearing his DPD windbreaker.

“You could’ve borrowed something of mine,” Hank says, stepping close to him and brushing some of the snow off. Connor’s holding a paper bag from a coffee shop nearby, and he cranes his neck to brush a kiss to Hank’s cheek. His face is a little red, but whether it’s from the weather or from being around Hank is a mystery.

“It’s fine. It’s not that cold anyway. I got us breakfast,” he says, toeing off his shoes and taking the bag into the kitchen while Hank unclips Sumo and hangs the leash up.

It’s a little bit more awkward than Hank had expected. Connor sits down and sips his coffee, and Hank leans against the sink and tries not to get croissant flakes all over his beard and clothes. He fails.

Finally Connor looks at him, an indecipherable look in his eyes.

“Did you think I’d left?” He asks, tearing at the sleeve of his paper cup.

Hank’s heart constricts, and he clears his throat, weighing his words.

“Nah,” he says slowly. “Not your thing, right?” He smiles, and Connor huffs out a laugh.

“You’re such an asshole,” he grins, and Hank shrugs, downing the rest of his coffee.

“You ready to talk?”

Connor sighs, pushing his bagel away and turning to stare up at the ceiling. “Do we have to? Can’t we just see where this takes us?”

“No,” Hank says, some of the old weariness seeping back in. “I’m 51, I don’t really have it in me to go through another heart-break when it turns out I can’t give you what you want.”

Connor stares at him slack-jawed. “Hea- What do you _think_ I want from you?”

Hank shrugs uncomfortably. “I don’t know. What do people in their 30s want?”

Connor watches him for a moment, thinking. “A family.”

“Kids.” Hank is quiet for a moment, staring at the floor. “I can’t- my age aside, I can’t fucking go through that again,” he says softly.

Connor is so still Hank’s not even sure he’s breathing anymore. “How about,” he begins, voice a little on the chilled side, “you stop making assumptions about me? When have I ever given you the impression that I can’t wait to have babies and a house with a white picket fence?” He asks, and Hank admits the hostility is deserved.

Connor gets up and starts collecting the trash, throwing the cups and the leftovers into the paper bag with more force than necessary.

“I don’t want to say the wrong thing and insinuate I don’t understand parenthood and what you- what you lost,” he says, voice a little more gentle now. “But I don’t want that. I’ve never wanted that, and you can blame my own mess of a childhood or you can call me selfish, but if you ever saw me around kids you’d understand.” He stands in the middle of the kitchen, the paper bag hanging off one hand, and he looks so exhausted that Hank aches to touch him. He keeps his distance though. He needs to.

Hank had met Helen about six months after his tryst with Connor. Things had moved too quickly, and then Helen had gotten pregnant, and Hank had been 41 when he was finally offered the chance at fatherhood. He’d grasped it immediately and whole-heartedly. Love for Helen came later, and it had burned out quickly, and died with Cole.

He thinks of himself at 30, and remembers knowing he’d wanted to be a father even then. If he had been sure that he was ready for a responsibility like that, then who is he to question Connor’s convictions to the opposite? He owes it to him to treat him like an adult, to trust him, even if some doubt and worry still lingers.

“Okay. No kids,” he nods, and Connor relaxes a little. “And you’re sure you’re just fine with being with someone my age?” He asks, and he tells himself to breathe. “You’re sure you’re okay with explaining that to your friends, with people who are going to assume I’m your father, or that I’m some sort of a-” He falters, averting his eyes.

“Pervert?” Connor says, and there’s a sly grin on his face that makes Hank laugh despite himself.

“Yeah.”

Connor sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. “I’m not- do you think I haven’t thought of this? I’ve had a lot of time to think about why I’m so- why I want you so much, because and despite of everything between us. And I’m not here to profess my undying love for you, but I think it’d be a monumental mistake if we didn’t at least give this a try.”

Hank has to swallow a few times, something heavy sitting in the base of his throat and refusing to go down.

“Okay,” he says eventually. “I can work with that.” His chest is beginning to feel a little lighter again, and he lets himself to close the distance between them, removing the bag from Connor’s death-grip and allowing it to fall on the floor. “Okay?” He asks, nudging his nose against Connor’s brow.

“Okay,” Connor murmurs, leaning against him. “And… We’ll take it slow. We have time, and you were right. We shouldn’t rush things.”

Hank laughs, wrapping his arms loosely around Connor. “I feel like we may have jumped the gun on that. How’s your ass?”

Connor snorts, giving him a gentle shove. “Thoroughly fucked, and you know it. I can feel the smugness radiating off of you.”

Hank grins, leaning down to rub his beard into Connor’s smooth-shaven cheek. “Let an old man enjoy the small victories.”

Connor’s hand squeezes at his side, a tickling sensation that makes Hank chuckle and pull away a little.

“Are we good?” Connor asks, worrying his lower lip. Hank brushes over it with his thumb, palm pressed along Connor’s jawline.

“We’re good. We’ll figure it out, yeah?” He says encouragingly, and Connor nods, giving him a lopsided smile.

Connor still hovers while Hank feeds Sumo and changes his water. He looks like he’s about to climb out of his skin.

“Alright, would you go sit down somewhere, you’re making me nervous just looking at you,” Hank growls, and Connor gives him a sheepish look.

“Sorry. Guess I’m still a little wound up from everything.” He hesitates, looking around like he’s searching for something.

“Do you happen to have any cigarettes?” He blurts out, and Hank raises his eyebrows.

“No. I haven’t smoked since before I first met y- wait, hang on,” he says, opening a drawer and rummaging around.

“I ended up holding these for someone at the last Christmas party, never threw them out.” He tosses the beat-up, half-empty pack to Connor.

“Just don’t make a habit out of this, I’m not really into the whole “licking an ashtray” aspect of dating a smoker.”

Connor blushes and gives him a lazy salute before disappearing into the hallway and out onto the porch.

Hank sighs, taking a moment to bury his face in his hands. He suspects this won’t be the end of it, but they have a starting point. If things don’t work out, he’ll deal with that in his own way, but for now he lets himself have hope. If Connor’s willing to offer himself up to him, Hank’s not foolish enough to turn something like that down. It feels a lot like a second chance.

 

He’s pulled out of his funk by his phone ringing. It’s Fowler. He sighs and answers, not really feeling like discussing shop right now.

“Can’t this wait until I’m back at work,” he grunts, moving to sit on his sofa.

“ _Good morning to you too,_ ” Jeffrey says, and Hank can almost hear the eye-roll. “ _I sent Chris to check up on Connor. He’s not home._ ”

Hank freezes, his pulse picking up. “Huh.” He coughs, stalling. “Maybe he’s gone out?”

“ _He’s not answering his phone either. I’m a little concerned, given what he’s experienced. Have you heard from him?_ ”

 _Heard him moaning on my dick last night, sure,_ Hank thinks hysterically. He swallows, shifting his phone from one hand to the other.

“He’s here. He- He didn’t feel like going home alone,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual.

There’s a long, heavy silence, and then Jeffrey speaks, words even and measured. “ _I see. So that was a lie just then,_ ” he says, and Hank huffs out a long breath.

“Look-” he starts, but Jeffrey steamrolls him.

“ _Where’s he sleeping?_ ” He asks, intonation leaving no doubts about his meaning.

Hank’s silent for a moment. “It’s not against the rules,” he finally says, fully aware of how petty he sounds.

“ _Jesus Christ, Hank, how long has this been going on?_ ” Jeffrey asks, frustration carrying over even through the tinny speakers.

“Just now. I promise.”

“ _You’re a fucking moron, Anderson._ ”

Hank would agree, usually, but he refuses to feel bad about this now.

Jeffrey heaves out a sigh, the speaker crackling with it. “ _Book a meeting with human resources when you return to work, I want all our asses covered,_ ” he says. He seems to hesitate for a moment, and then asks, “ _Is the kid okay?_ ”

Hank relaxes, slouching back against the sofa pillows. “Yeah, I think so. Still a little wound-up, but who can blame him.”

“ _Reed ‘s taking care of Hutton. The collar will go in your record, but as far as I’m concerned, until it’s time to go to trial this case is closed. I don’t know if Connor will be required to testify, but we’ll cross that bridge if it comes to that._ ”

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he has to face Hutton again. He’d like to punch the man’s teeth in, and has no guarantees about holding himself back if they ever come face to face again.

“ _By the way, Hutton wanted to apologise to Connor;_ ” Fowler says, and there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Come again?” Hank asks, incredulous.

“ _Said he feels real bad about what he did. He’d like Connor to know it was nothing personal and that he’s very sorry._ ”

Hank’s blood boils, his fingers digging into his thigh. “I’m not fucking telling him that. He doesn’t need his head fucked with any more than it’s already been by that fucker,” he spits out. “Don’t you fucking breathe a word to him.”

“ _Your choice,_ ” Jeffrey says. “ _I gotta go._ ” He hesitates for a moment. “ _Good luck, Hank._ ”

“Thanks,” Hank mutters, but the line is already dead.

 

Connor’s halfway through a cigarette when Hank joins him on the porch. Hank sits down on the cold stonework and stretches his hand out, making a “gimmy” motion with his fingers.

“Oh, all right,” Connor says, handing him a cancer stick. “But just make sure you don’t make a habit out of it,” he drawls with a hint of mockery in his tone. Hank cuffs hims gently on the back of the head, and Connor shoots him a sideways grin.

“So,” Hank says awkwardly, blowing out smoke. God, now he remembers why he smoked for so long. He clears his throat.

“What you said about taking things slow.”

Connor gives him a look, one eyebrow raised and the cigarette hanging off his lip.

“Things may have kicked up a gear. Fowler called,” Hank says, looking at his shoes.

Connor makes a sound but doesn’t say anything.

“He was worried. Apparently you haven’t been home.”

“Oh.”

Connor puts out the cigarette and lights a new one, drawing the smoke in deep. Hank watches the way his throat works on the exhale.

“We’ll have to meet with HR when we get back.”

“Well, shit,” Connor sighs. “Are we in trouble?”

Hank shrugs. “Fraternising isn’t exactly encouraged, but it’s not really against the rules either. Don’t know what they’ll say about me being technically your superior, but I don’t really have any say in things pertaining to your career.”

“Except for the fact that you’re my mentor,” Connor says, flicking the ashes off his cigarette.

“Might work in our advantage. Call it a trial period. Worst comes to worst, they’ll just assign you another partner.”

Connor hunches in on himself, face scrunched up. “I’d like to stay with you. Not just because of this-” he waves his hand between them. “But for my career too. You’ve been a good mentor. A good partner.”

Hank smiles, putting his arm around Connor and tugging him to his side. “Guess I’ll just have to fight them,” he says dramatically, and Connor laughs, resting his head on Hank’s shoulder. Hank considers telling him about Hutton’s message, but decides against it. He’ll tell him later, Connor has the right to know, but it can wait until things are a little less raw.

“You feelin’ okay?” Hank murmurs, his breath ruffling Connor’s hair.

“Yeah. I think so," Connor says, voice soft. "Coming that close to facing your own mortality is… I’m not going to lie, it’s fucked up. But I’m okay. I don’t- it’s not constantly on my mind.” He presses tighter against Hank. “This helps.”

Hank hums, appeased.

They sit there for a quiet moment, watching the snow fall in big, fat flakes.

“My ass is falling asleep,” Connor mumbles eventually, struggling to get up.

Hank lets him go and helps him to his feet. Connor looks at the pack of cigarettes in his hands and crushes it.

“You were right. They are pretty gross,” he says, stuffing the pack in his pocket. Hank chuckles and lets him inside, and they both end up in the bathroom, wrestling for space as they brush the taste of nicotine and tar off their tongues.

 

The day passes quietly. Hank cooks a stir fry from leftovers that miraculously haven’t gone off yet, and Connor reads and naps. It’s nice, domestic in a way that scares Hank a little. He doesn’t know how he’ll get over the overwhelming need to protect Connor now, and makes a mental note to book himself an appointment with the precinct therapist too. He doesn’t want this thing between them to bleed into their work, not when he needs to keep a clear head in the field.

He watches Connor sleep, draped ungracefully over the sofa and drooling a little into a pillow, and his heart aches. It’s good. It’s good to care about someone like this again, he thinks.

He shakes Connor’s shoulder gently, and Connor stirs, and then jolts up, looking around.

“Jesus,” he groans, scrubbing at his face. “What time is it?”

“Almost five. I’ve got food if you’re hungry.”

 

Something shifts after dinner. They put on an old drama and barely pay it any attention. Hank fucks around with a crossword puzzle that’s a lost cause, and Connor is reading something on his tablet, but keeps throwing glances at Hank until Hank starts to feel antsy.

“Do I have something on my face?” he grouses, and Connor puts his tablet away.

“No. But I’m feeling frisky,” he says, scooting closer and sticking his face against Hank’s neck.

“Huh. I’m willing to explore that.” He drops his crossword over the edge of the sofa and pulls Connor close, kissing him slow. He could just do this, necking like teenagers, he thinks, stroking his hand along Connor’s arm.

“Can I blow you?” Connor murmurs against his lips, and Hank feels like all the air has escaped his lungs.

“Are you seriously asking me?” He says incredulously, and Connor laughs, pulling away and dropping to his knees on the floor.

Hank spreads his legs and tries to keep his breathing even as Connor undoes his zipper.

“Up,” Connor demands, patting Hank’s flank, and Hank lifts his hips so Connor can drag his jeans and boxers down.

“I’ve thought about this a lot,” Connor admits, taking Hank’s soft cock in his hand and giving it a few languid strokes.

“Yeah?” Hank clears his throat, giving himself permission to touch Connor’s hair. “Uh, me too.”

The happy grin Connor gives him is enough to make his heart flutter against his ribs.

“Fuck, you’re pretty,” he says quietly, cupping Connor’s cheek. “How the fuck did I get this lucky?”

Connor smiles, dimple and crow’s feet on brilliant display. He rucks Hank’s shirt up, and though Hank still wants to cover his stomach, his gut even more prominent as he slouches into the sofa, he lets Connor do what he wants. It earns him a kiss above his navel, and then a trail of them going down until Connor’s nuzzling at his dick.

Hank grunts when Connor mouths at his balls, sucking gently at the soft skin, nudging his nose against the root of his hardening cock.

“That’s, that’s good,” Hank stutters, petting Connor’s hair. Connor shoots him a look, eyes a little crinkled, and then he takes Hank in his hand and guides the tip into his mouth.

It’s good. It’s fucking excellent, and Hank has to grip Connor’s shoulder to make sure he doesn’t accidentally tear tufts of his hair off. Connor hollows his cheeks and closes his eyes, lashes black against his flushed skin, and starts to bob his head, moaning when Hank stiffens further on his tongue.

Hank can’t look away. He’s panting hard, pulse racing and cock aching with arousal, and his back is tense from trying to not shove his hips up to fuck into the wet heat. Connor fumbles for his hand and places it back in his hair, and Hank gets it, despite the way his thoughts are lagging something fierce right now.

He presses gently, and Connor breathes in once through his nose and then sinks down, throat rippling around Hank’s girth. There’s a soft, muffled moan that goes straight to Hank’s dick, and then Connor’s shoulders convulse and Hank guides him back up before pushing him down again.

Connor takes it all like a champ, and Hank starts to feel a bit more daring, taking control of the pace and fucking Connor’s mouth slowly. He brings his free hand to play with his nipples, groaning softly, and Connor’s eyes fly open. Connor’s gaze lands on Hank’s chest and he whines, a desperate sound that vibrates against Hank’s shaft.

“Fuck, baby, I’m so close,” Hank warns, and Connor shifts, pressing his own hips against Hank’s leg, rubbing against him desperately. It’s what does Hank in, and he tries to tug Connor off, but Connor simply moans, pulls back about halfway, and Hank comes down his throat with a grunt, staring at Connor’s lips stretched tight around his girth.

Hank’s barely finished shuddering through his orgasm before he’s tugging Connor off and up into his lap. “Up, up, come on, come here,” he commands, shoving Connor’s pants down and groping at the swell of his ass. He gets a hand on Connor’s straining dick, flushed and hot in his palm, and starts stroking it. Connor clings to his shoulders, rutting into his grip, moaning softly in his ear.

“Hank, Hank,” Connor chants, working his hips frantically, and then his whole body goes tense as he comes with a choked groan. Hank holds him tight, feels Connor’s come against his belly and his breath hot against his neck. He can’t think of anything more perfect than what he has now.

 

Eventually Connor goes back to his own apartment, and Hank tries not to feel alone in his house. They’d agreed on it, as part of trying to take things at a moderate pace. “Slow” has flown out the window, but cohabitation feels more like a stride than a step, and they decide to wait.

They go back to work, Jeffrey easing them into it with simple cases. Neither of them shares what they talk about in therapy.

Hank drinks less, usually only in company, sometimes still when he’s alone and old demons start rattling around in the corners. He doesn’t pass out or black out, and his revolver sits in its box, gathering dust. Only once does he show up hungover in the morning, and Connor’s face gets a pinched look when he smells old booze on him. He doesn’t mention it though, just brings him coffee, strong and black.

 

They have their first fight before Christmas.

Connor wants Hank to go to Ann Arbour to spend the holidays with Markus and his family. Hank wants to be miserable with his memories, and he certainly doesn’t want his first time meeting Connor’s friends to be over a long weekend when he’s stuck in a strange house with nowhere to go if things get weird. But he controls his tongue and doesn’t reach for the bottle, and finally he manages to express himself in a way that gets through to Connor.

Things are fragile for the next two days, both of them tense and careful around each other, until Connor suggests Hank travel down for New Year’s.

 

 

 

Hank checks the address one more time, and then approaches the receptionist.

“I’m here for the Manfred party?” He says uncertainly, giving his name to her. She gives him the correct floor and directs him to the elevators.

“ _I’m here,_ ” he texts Connor, hands clammy with nerves he wasn’t aware he still had. It’s been a long time since he last had to meet a significant other’s family, and he’s too old to give a shit, and yet...

The party is in full swing, and Hank’s relieved to see he’s not the most under-dressed person in attendance. Plenty of young people dressed casually in jeans and button-downs or tidy sweaters, and Hank smooths down his own shirt, for once just plain white cotton.

The place is… expensive, is the word that comes to mind. The far wall is nothing but solid, gleaming glass that gives a view over the main street. Uniformed waiters are making rounds with silver platters of fancy finger food and alcohol. There’s classical music playing, but the orchestra is dressed in a manner more fitting for a rock band. Hank feels his age.

A waiter offers him champagne, and he takes it, resisting the urge to throw it back in one gulp. He grips his phone in a sweaty hand, praying for Connor to see his message and come find him.

“Lieutenant Anderson?” someone says, and Hank turns, bracing himself.

He’s seen pictures of Markus before, but he’s still a little taken aback. Heterochromia, Connor had once explained, and Hank tries to be polite and not stare in an obvious way. He shakes Markus’s hand, and there’s a moment that Hank can only characterise as a pissing contest, until the corner of Markus’s mouth twitches and he loosens his grip on Hank’s hand.

“Connor’s around here somewhere, I’ll help you find him,” Markus says, nudging Hank’s shoulder gently in the direction of a large group of people.

“Thanks,” Hank says gruffly, his death-grip on his glass loosening. “And thank you for inviting me.”

“Don’t mention it. We’ve been waiting for Connor to let us meet you.” Markus gives him a shark-like grin. “Connor was out with us the night you two met, so I guess you could say we’re part of the story.”

Hank flushes, and wishes he’d left his hair open to hide behind. “That’s great. That’s, really, I love that,” he mutters, and Markus just laughs, patting his back amiably.

“Don’t worry, I trust Connor’s judgement. Although as his oldest friend I’m legally obligated to at least threaten you a little bit. Break his heart and bad things will follow, that sort of thing” he says, and though his tone is light, there’s an undercurrent there that Hank would rather not test.

Hank chuckles softly, raising his glass in acknowledgement. “You’re a brave man for threatening a Lieutenant, so I’ll take your words to heart,” he says, and Markus laughs, touching his glass to Hank’s.

“Good. I like you,” he smiles, and Hank feels something like relief spread in his gut. He’s about to reply when someone presses into him from behind, winding arms around his waist.

“Hello,” Connor says, chin propped on his shoulder. Hank cranes his neck and then tugs him off and around to face him.

“Hello yourself. You’re looking pretty sauced,” he says, evaluating the flush high on Connor’s cheeks and the slightly glassy look in his eyes. It’s been over a week since they’ve seen each other, and he takes a moment to just _look_ , something warm settling in his core.

“Not much. I was a little nervous,” Connor says defensively, taking Hank’s hand in his. Hank can tell he wants to kiss him, but they have a rule about public displays of affection, and Hank’s not sure he wants to fold on them here. Even the hug makes him want to start glancing around with paranoia.

They’re joined by a man Hank recognises from the pictures as Simon, and a few others that Markus introduces from law school or work. Hank feels desperately out of his element with everyone Connor’s age, but after a few drinks that he refuses to feel ashamed of, he starts to relax. Connor stays by his side, and Hank’s pleased to notice that Connor’s friends are more than happy to let him join in on the conversation. Mostly he’s content to remain quiet and watch Connor, happy and tipsy and opinionated.

Eventually Hank gets roped into a discussion with Markus about criminal law, sitting in a secluded corner on leather sofas that probably cost more than Hank’s few months’ salary. Having in-depth debates with lawyers isn’t what Hank would normally call a good time, but Markus doesn’t take things too seriously or too personally, and Hank finds he’s enjoying himself.

Connor vanishes somewhere, and when he returns he’s a little more drunk and carrying party hats. Hank allows him to sprawl against him here where there are less prying eyes. He draws the line at the hats though, taking the one Connor is obstinately trying to put on his head and using the elastic band to shoot it towards Markus.

“You gonna slow down or were you planning on passing out before midnight?” Hank asks dryly, and Connor groans against his shoulder.

“Simon made me do a shot. Shots,” he says, slurring a little. Hank realises he’s never seen him this drunk. At home Connor only drinks a beer or two, sometimes a bit of Hank’s whiskey.

Connor lifts his face and nudges his nose against Hank’s jaw, and Hank turns to look at him.

“Please?” Connor says, and Hank sighs, wrapping his arm around Connor’s waist and leaning in to kiss him. He can taste citrus on Connor’s tongue, and salt. Tequila then. Hank cuts the kiss short, still self-conscious, and Connor sighs.

“No one gives a shit, you know that, right?” He says a little sharply, and Hank puts a hand on his thigh.

“Not here, okay?” He says, tone warning, hoping this doesn’t turn into an argument.

Connor frowns, but it melts away soon enough. “You look good,” he murmurs, touching Hank’s hair briefly. “Though I miss your ugly shirts. When I get back I’m gonna come spend the night and you can put on your loudest shirt for me,” he says happily.

Hank laughs, reaching to mess with Connor’s hair a little. “It’s a deal,” he grins. “Now go find something to eat, and stay away from the booze for about an hour.”

Connor gives him a sharp salute, and then presses a quick kiss to Hank’s temple before he’s off again, almost immediately derailed by North and Josh yelling about something that gets lost in the music.

When Hank turns around Markus is watching him, expression a little amused. Hank scratches his neck, feeling self-conscious.

“He always this much of an affectionate drunk?” He asks, trying to ease the awkwardness with a joke.

Markus is silent for a beat, and then he leans back on the sofa, one ankle resting over his knee. “No”, he says. “Never.” The smile he’s wearing borders on infuriating.

 

He finds Connor again just before midnight, a bit more sobered up and holding a glass of water.

“Having a good time?” Connor asks, standing a little to the side as people begin to crowd by the windows as the clock inches towards twelve.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am,” Hank says, surprised to realise that it’s the truth. He likes Connor’s friends, and he likes seeing this side of Connor. He places his hand on the small of Connor’s back, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. “Thanks for asking me to come.”

Connor smiles at him, and Hank gets a little lost in it. A waiter comes by to hand them fresh glasses of champagne, and then someone starts to count down the seconds, the whole crowd joining in.

The view of the fireworks is worth every penny the Manfreds paid for the venue. They spread over the ripple of Ann Arbor’s skyline, bursts of chemical colours dotting the black night sky for several minutes.

Once it begins to die down Hank realises the music has stopped. He looks around curiously, and then there’s a yell from the crowd, followed by sounds of confusion. Finally Hank catches a glimpse of Markus, face flushed, holding Simon’s hand up in the air so everyone can see the shiny gold band that now sits on Simon’s finger. There’s a cacophony of cheers and whoops and applause that don’t seem to want to die down.

Connor is grinning, clutching Hank’s forearm in a death-grip.

“Did you know?” Hank asks as the music starts again. The unconventional orchestra is gathering its instruments, and the room fills with the soft notes of some indie pop artist Hank doesn’t recognise.

“Yes. Markus and I went ring-shopping before Christmas,” Connor replies, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

Hank wonders if it’s something Connor would ever want. He’s not sure it’s something he’s ready for, but he thinks he might be getting ahead of himself anyway. Things are good where they stand now, and whatever lies in the future will arrive at its own, languid pace.

They watch as people begin to pair off, dancing to the sweet rhythm of the song. Markus and Simon are in the center of the floor, lost in a bubble of their own. Hank feels suddenly desperately aware of how odd they must look, glued together in the fringes of the crowd. He looks at Markus and Simon, how they're lost to the world.

“Do you wanna…” He says, feeling his face heat up. Connor looks at him, eyes wide, his own cheeks growing ruddy, and nods, hooking his fingers around Hank’s belt and pulling him into the crowd.

Hank’s never been much of a dancer, but once he realises no one is looking, that they’re shielded by the small ocean of bodies, he relaxes. He takes Connor’s hand in his own, the other going around his waist, and Connor mirrors him. There’s an almost comical gap between them as they dance until Connor steps closer, his chest brushing against Hank’s.

“Okay?” Connor asks, giving him a concerned look.

Hank clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Connor smiles, and they sway together in a way that could only barely be called dancing but feels nice anyway. The song melts into something softer, the melody upbeat but the voice of the woman singing echoing with melancholy. Connor moves to wrap his arms loosely around Hank’s shoulders, and Hank swallows, his own hands settling on Connor’s slim hips.

No one glares at him. No one comments.

“Hey,” Connor murmurs, and Hank looks at him, taking in the familiar shapes of his face, the curve of his lips, his long lashes and dark eyes, the small lines around his eyes and mouth.

“Hey,” he answers, voice a little gravelly.

Connor smiles, his fingers playing with some errant hairs at the nape of Hank’s neck.

“I think I love you,” Connor says, so easy and matter-of-fact, and it’s like a punch to the gut. For a moment Hank forgets how to breathe, and then he nods, slow and sure. He breathes in, exhales, and presses his mouth to Connor’s, tasting the sugar from the champagne, inhaling Connor’s familiar scent.

They stay like that, and the world doesn’t end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The song Hank and Connor dance to. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccNWxAB8hk8)
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> [Supernova101 drew Connor being a little flustered by Hank's pony tail](https://supernova101.tumblr.com/post/179256084761/kind-of-really-rushed-but-i-needed-to-get-this-out) :3
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>  [Yakichou's gorgeous illustration of the hostage scene and the hug that shook the world.](https://twitter.com/Yakichou1/status/1061283345047277569) and  [The slow-dancing at the end](https://twitter.com/Yakichou1/status/1070071743895752705)!
> 
> Please go give all these artists a like or a reblog/tweet! And if you drew something and you feel like I never reacted, please message me because Tumblr's tagging system is deeply broken and I may not have seen it. 
> 
>    
> Thanks for the wild ride :')  
>  
> 
> Find me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
> [Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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